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holybibly · 6 months

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Divine Rosa ❢ot8xreader❣

❣ Pairing: yandere!otx8 x reader ❣ Genre: Dark Romance, vampire au, angst, horror, yandere au, smut ❣ Summary: The moth always pours itself into the flame; what a pity that in the end it burns out. After the tragic death of her sister, MС tries to find answers to the questions she left behind. This leads her to a gated cottage town known for its luxurious rose gardens. In addition, there are also these mysterious men who manage all the affairs in the city. Too sweet, too helpful, too intrusive, and too in love. ❣ WARNING: only!18+ Themes of death, suicide, severe depression, stalking, blood, yandere behavior. ❣ Disclaimer: I don't support yandere behavior, stalking, or religious imposition. Themes include violence, obsession, possessiveness, and emotional or psychological manipulation. This book is intended solely for entertainment purposes.

English is not my native language, so if you see any mistakes, please let me know.

Published on AO3 like FleurRi

❣ Prologue: Roses scarlet like blood ❣

Every story has a beginning: a magical, inexplicable moment—an elusive contact between reality and dreams. When thoughts emerge from the edge of consciousness, a stream of colorless letters appears on the parchment of our fate, eventually becoming an event. Life's intersections, fragments of various plots, are continuously repeated, lost, or deliberately forgotten. They are like unwritten melodies; the echo of their angelic voices follows us through life, like the bright tent of a wandering circus that incessantly makes noise. is full of tinsel, and raves with dreams.

There are millions of them. No. Billions, like the sleeping stars, sway peacefully on the sky-blue wire; their scattered light tells the wayward souls the way in the velvet folds of the night's darkness. These are our memories. Some are dazzlingly bright, as fresh as summer breezes, while others are barely flickering, covered in the marble ashes of time and a diamond crumb of emotion. And they all live so far away and at the same time prohibitively close together, there, in the labyrinth of the underground sky and on the endless roads of the blood rivers, where it is impossible to find them: in our memory.

Just as a pebble thrown into the ocean sinks into the murky depths, so does memory. Drowning into the viscous muddy depths without a bottom, in that rich and uncharted area that we call “oblivion,” it sinks in time. And few of us have been given the opportunity to preserve living images of memories of the feelings we have ever experienced: to drown in the bittersweet water of sorrow and joy; to fill our consciousness to the brim, like a vessel with golden honey, with the feelings of pain and keen passion, and to die. Die happy. The greatest privilege of all.

Seconds, minutes, days, and years—colorful fragments of time; sharp crumbs scattered under our feet. Unlike us, those who plunge into eternal sleep, our memories that have insidiously dissolved in ink in our blood will not disappear. They fear death, flee from it, and hide in the thick of the earth that blossoms with fluttering glass, forget-me-nots and drunken petunias that, in their intoxicating happiness, kiss the eyelashes of the blind God. You hear them whisper, “I’ll never forget you…”

My story begins with an innocent question that I’m sure you’ve heard more than once: “Do you like roses?”

Once upon a time, I would have answered, "Yes, I love roses." But, as it turns out, all our words are followed by consequences, and small rosy spikes can be much more dangerous than they seem at first glance, just like in the fairy tales that we were told in childhood. You know, there are things that we might call fatal: people who decide other people’s lives as long as they reach out to them like they're God. And then there are the flowers, which keep the mysteries tenebrous and ancient. I'm almost a hundred years old, maybe more. I should start my story right now; this is the perfect moment.

I will tell you about who I once was and who I am now. I will tell you about love, which is akin to obsession, and the death of her faithful friend. I will also tell you about the people, ghosts, or maybe illusions that were around me. They were with me once… Now, there are others, but they’ll be in my story later. They will come into my life with a chorus of angelic voices; the sound of a heavy autumn downpour, and the pretentious solemnity of death. Yeah, they’ll be there, though, if you think about it, they were always there, from my first breath to my last breath, by my side. But I’m forgetting what’s important. I have to tell you about the roses, and only about them.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

Mina's long hair shimmered like luxurious silk under the early morning light. Bloody strands fell in curled doll curls onto her bare shoulders, as if in Baroque paintings. The lush blossoms of white roses woven together in her hair made her look like the ancient Greek goddess of spring. Her appearance has always been astonishing, blatantly perfect rather than real, but that was sometime in the past. Now she was like a pale ghost of herself, a blurry reflection on a black surface of water on a moonlit night. The only thing that reminded her of her former beauty was her hair, which remained perfectly groomed and scarlet, like blood. Oh yeah, there are still roses. These flowers… there was something unnatural about them, something otherworldly. Each petal was painfully perfect, as if made of satin. But the flowers were real; they were alive and breathing and too demanding. It seemed that just because they wanted this, Mina could wear them in her hair. It was their choice, not hers. “Do you like roses, Rosa?” · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

This is the moment when my life changed forever. If I had known that this innocent question would be the beginning of my end, but can this be called the end? Would my answer have been different?

I’ve thought about it a thousand times. Over and over again, I played this scene like a broken record, crossed my answer out of the script, wrote a new one, and made comments and footnotes, but… But the answer was the same. I couldn’t change anything; it was destined. Much later, when I fall asleep in a warm bed, I will feel a gentle kiss on my closed eyelids and hear San’s angelic voice whisper in my ear that fate is never wrong. That they would find me or that I would come to them does not matter; in the end, we would still be together in life and in death. In eternity.

I’ll come back to that later, I promise. In the meantime, I’ll continue. · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

“They’re beautiful, Mina, but I don’t like them anymore.” I sounded terribly rude from the outside, and I could see Mina’s eyes filled with tears, as if I had slapped her.

“But Rosa!” Mina reached out her pale arms to me. “Look how perfect they are; don’t you care about their beauty? Doesn’t your heart beat faster when you look at them? O Rosa, these flowers are special; they never wilt.” She shook her head, as if confirming her words. “Yeosang gave them to me before I left” Her long, thin fingers reaching for the white rosebuds in her hair. “I want to give you one.” Hooking the flower, Mina gently pulled it out of her curls and stretched it towards me. I didn't have the desire to accept her gift; something in her behavior and her voice caused me anxiety. And there was this name: Yeosang. It wasn’t the first time I heard it, but it was a long time ago, and I still remember that Mina mentioned others with that name: Hongjoong, San, and Mingi. They sounded familiar to me as a song once learned by heart. She pronounced them in a special way: with a gentle intonation and an exciting euphoria. As if it had been repeated countless times at the same completely new to her. All I could hear was the echo of that song, which came along with those names in the conversation. It was an ominous echo, like an impending, inevitable storm. Mina was still holding out a rose, and I looked at her hands. Arms with a faint web of blue veins that looked like dried stems of faint flowers. For some reason, I came up with the idea of sirens holding out their hands to pirates while their voices led them into the welcome embrace of death. Did they look like Mina’s hands now?

I remember these hands weaving long pearl threads into my hair during festivals. I remember the feeling of intertwined fingers as Mina led me down the dark corridors of my grandmother's old house. I remember them gently wiping my tears when I was rubbing my feet until I bled in ballet class.

I remember the touch of those hands… I know him. These cold fingers that so carefully hold the snow-white flower no longer belong to my sister. Their touch changed, becoming foreign and distant, as did the mysterious land where these perfect, never-fading roses grew.

Didn’t that sound like a fairy tale? Just in our history, there has been no magic mirror, no Queen-Witch whose crown shines like a star, and no apple full of poison, but there is a coffin of shimmering crystal, and a prince that sleeps in it. Of course, there are also roses—thousands of roses.

“Rosa” Mina turned to me again. “Please take them; you will surely love them. Just try to feel them…”

She put a flower in my hands. The drops of nectar froze on the wax petals, and the first rays of the dawn sun made them sparkle like diamonds. “This variety is special.” Her voice sounded soft. “It's called the Deva-Rosa. I want to show you where they grow. It’s so beautiful. I want you to come with me, Rosa. We’ll be there together, you and me.” Mina smiled dazzlingly, but something was wrong with that smile. The once-sensual kiss lips were painfully curved, the corners awfully lifted, like the forever-frozen smile of a Venetian mask, and the warm pink shade was gone.

I was always jealous of her lips. They were so tender, plump, and enticing. All her features attracted attention, but it was her lips that made Mina's beauty unique.

She shone like the sun, easily becoming the center of everyone's attention—a beautiful white swan. The main heroine of the story.

Then there was me, only a shadow of her perfection—gloomy and pale as the moon, the complete opposite of the burning heat and the sexuality of my sister. Unlike Mina's, my features were not sensual and breathtaking; no, they were old-fashioned, like those of a porcelain doll. I didn’t find myself ugly or unattractive; just ordinary. One of a hundred million. The classic tragic heroine of a Gothic novel, someone like me, doesn’t make it to the finale.

Now looking at Mina, I can no longer see her life; her fire has almost been extinguished, leaving embers smoldering. And only her hair, like a burning sunset, was the only bright spot in her appearance. They crimson her white dress like blood rivers in the snow.

“Rosa, come with me.” The touch of her hands was icy and gave me a nasty shiver. It wasn’t Mina anymore. “Let's go, please. We can admire roses together. We can be together, Rosa. Remember what we promised each other when we were kids? Forever.” Mina leaned towards me with her whole body, completely trespassing into my space, and with her intimacy came the suffocating, sugary smell of roses. It was a thick, enveloping aroma that instantly sat in the lungs. I thought that if I breathed it in deeper, these strange, unnatural flowers would sprout in my veins, intertwine with my bones, and create a new home for themselves in my body.

“No!” I exclaimed, pushing Mina away from me. “I don’t want that, Mina. I don’t want you or those freaking roses in my life.”

Suddenly on my feet, I took a few steps away from the pale Mina, who was staring at a rose that had fallen to the ground. Her posture was as vulnerable as that of a wounded animal, and her limp arms reached for the flower, which, surprisingly, began to darken and fade, touching the ground. In her eyes, once radiant with happiness and dreaming, stood tears, and her lips began to tremble. It was as if a child whose beloved toy had been mercilessly abused had fallen to her knees, picked up a dying bud, and, in despair, pinned it to her lips.

“How can you be so cruel, Rosa?” Mina whispered, her lips gently touching the petals. “You hurt them; it breaks their heart. Can’t you just accept their love? Accept the roses?” She continued to kiss the petals.

“What are you talking about, Mina? Whose love should I accept?” I asked cautiously. Her behavior began to frighten me.

“You must give yourself to them, Rosa; I must give you to them.” Mina ignored my question, methodically kissing a faded flower. His dead petals began to fall away, slowly, baring his heart. “O Rosa, the rose is a rose; the rose is a deva; the deva is a rose; is a rose.”

“Mina!” I called her by her name in an alarm. The entire situation had me in a state of primitive terror. Mina began slowly swaying from side to side in time to your words, all the while continuing to say, “Rose is a rose, the rose is a deva.” It was meaningless, like the ravings of a madman. The words were repeated in an endless circle, like a prayer or a ritual chant. Mina’s voice grew louder, higher, and higher until it broke, and abruptly she stopped all movement, standing there like a graceful statue.

Once I admired her every move; now I want to cover my eyes so I never have to see her again. What happened after became the most traumatic thing in my life. I can never forget it, no matter how much I want it. It seemed to be imprinted on my eyelids, and even after closing my eyes in my sleep, I couldn’t get rid of those memories.

Her movements were fleeting, like the wings of a butterfly. Here she is before me, tense and waiting, and then her throat crosses a ragged line, and blood rushes through her body like a waterfall.

Eyes shining from tears are wide open and so resemble smooth black pearls, and lips are opened as if waiting for a kiss. For a second, Mina's body stretched like a thin string and then softened, falling on the grass. I heard someone start screaming; the sound was so deafening and heartbreaking that I wanted to curl up in a ball and cover my ears with my hands, so I couldn’t hear.

I found myself screaming. I needed to call for help; I had to call an ambulance, and I had to try to help her. Put my arms around her neck and cover her gaping red velvet wound.

But I was yelling about something else instead. My name is not Rosa; you hear me, Mina! I am not her. · · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

I awoke in a frenzy, sweating profusely and with a wildly pounding heart from an endlessly recurring nightmare.

This dream has haunted me for months since Mina’s funeral. Night after night, I have lived this sunrise over and over again. I didn’t like morning anymore; I started avoiding sunlight and hiding in the velvet folds of the night, sharing my loneliness with the darkness. I made the moon my friend, and the stars my silent witnesses.

My memory is folded paper, folded a thousand times. Sometimes, I want to unwrap it, but not completely: open the brittle edges of the fragile sashes, smooth out the folds and creases with my fingers, spread out the time sequence. Unwrap it just a little, and then fold again, mixing letters and days, reality and dreams. I never want to open the pages where the memories of that morning are stored. Every time I get almost to the end, moments before the final, I run away to the safety of happy days.

I try to come up with a new ending to this story, a different ending, but the dream comes to me like a cat, gently calling me into its embrace, and I find myself again in a place I don’t want to be.

It’s early in the morning, and the sun is just rising above the horizon, shimmering like a limitless purple-pink ocean.

In Mina’s crimson hair are snow-white roses, and her dress looks like an intricately woven ruffle and lace. Her pale hands holding flowers, her puffy lips in a painful smile, and her bare feet—the ground must be cold since it was the middle of October. Her blood… and the roses. And if it were possible to personify hatred and death, then for me, it would be roses.

I hated and despised these flowers with all my heart. They brought only sorrow and gloominess into my life. The beautiful symbol of mourning solemnity. They started it. They ended it all.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · ·

I was sixteen when Mina first called me Rosa. One January afternoon, she came home with a basket of the most gorgeous flowers I’ve ever seen in my life. Scarlet like the blood of a rose, they were magnificent and perfect. From that day on, I became Rosa. Why did Mina start calling me that? She never spoke. But she completely forgot my real name. For the whole world, I was now Rosa. After this case, every day in our small apartment, the roses became more and more numerous, until every inch of free space was filled with scarlet buds. Their smell was suffocating, thick, and sticky like honey. It is absorbed into the skin, hair, and dissolved in the blood. It made me dizzy and nauseous, and I could taste it on my tongue with every breath. But it wasn’t just a smell. It was a color that screamed “red,” like blood itself. It poured over our house, coloring the entire apartment in a disturbing shade.

After that, every day in our house, the roses became more and more numerous until they filled all the surrounding space.

Soon, they became so numerous that our house looked like a tomb filled with scarlet petals hanging from the ceiling. We've been arranging here with all honors, breathing in a haze as imperceptible as rose-scented mist.

In all the time I lived there, not a single flower withered. It was frightening and exciting at the same time. Day followed night, and night gave way to day; but no petal lost its pristine beauty, and no bud bowed its heavy head in sorrow. There was not a single bouquet that would dilute this velvet sea with its mourning black.

And if that did happen, Mina cried long and hard over these flowers and blamed herself for not saving them. At night, I heard the sound of her apologies and her fanatical prayers.

Whether she prayed to God or to the Devil, I couldn't tell. I'll find out for whom these prayers were intended many years later.

Roses were always sent with a postcard and a box of expensive chocolates with some intricate filling. The box was necessarily in the form of a heart. The signature was also one; once the unchanged calligraphic handwriting deduced only one phrase, “For you,”

Mina never told me who gave her these magic flowers or why the roses didn’t wither.

I tried to ask her these questions several times, but she only brushed them off, throwing her long hair from one shoulder to the other and angrily declaring, “You must love them; you don't need to know more.”

Mina also dyed her hair scarlet, like roses.

I couldn’t take it anymore. Constantly surrounded by these flowers was unbearable, and one day I packed up all my things and moved in with a friend, leaving Mina alone in her regal rosary.

My first night away from home, away from the roses and Mina, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned anxiously in bed hour after hour; but the dream never came, and then the phone rang. Mina called. Crying, she begged to come home, and when I asked her why, she barely whispered, “The roses are wilted.”

I hung up, and Mina never called me again. Two years had passed. My life had changed, and I think my luck had smiled. I found wonderful friends who were eccentric and bright. I had a great and caring boyfriend, and the internship at ballet school was promising. Everything worked out perfectly, and there were no more roses.

Until my twentieth birthday, a huge bleeding bouquet of scarlet roses tied with topaz-embroidered ribbon appeared in my new apartment. The candy box was heart-shaped, and the caption read, “For You.”

I burned the bouquet, threw out the chocolate, and tore the note apart, and blew it to the wind.

No one was supposed to see or know. Even me. Exactly eight days after these flowers appeared, I got a call from former neighbors in the apartment complex Mina was still living in. I was urged to come and deal with the situation; the smell of rot and death was unbearable, and Mina didn't open the doors or answer the phone. I opened the door with my key. Opening it wide, I crossed the threshold and could not contain a short scream. All the once-luxurious roses had rotted, dripping thick, stinking jugs on the floor and accumulating in gleaming poisonous lakes. Every corner of the space was occupied by large vases with black velvet buds and tall candles. After my move, Mina got rid of all the furniture, leaving only the big bed, which was now covered with dried stems strewn with thorns.

This place was like a grave — cold and dark — where my sister was supposed to rest. Going deeper, I found no hint of Mina's presence. Absolutely nothing. Only putrid roses and an empty heart-shaped box.

Mina was gone. For a whole year, I tried to find her without success. Old friends, distant relatives, acquaintances, and any other connections she might have ever had—I checked everything, but there was nothing to help me find her. It’s like she never existed.

In the two years we’ve been apart, I didn’t know anything about her. Mina didn’t call, and when I tried to contact her, she would reply with a short message, always the same: "Roses have wilted; come back." just like the night I left her.

All Mina had ever thought about since that unfortunate January day were these sinister roses.

The police began an investigation. Two years after her disappearance, Mina became officially missing.

And a year after that, she showed up at my door in the twilight of the fall morning, barefoot, in a sophisticated lace dress with a rose crown on her head. From the Mina that I knew, all that remained was her hair—long, silky, and crimson like blood and roses.

She still kept calling me Rosa, calling me out, and promising that we’d be happy together. That it will be only us, forever. She promised to show me where these strange flowers bloom, which she called the Deva-Rose, although these were not her words, but those of someone distant and unfamiliar to me, Hongjoong.

And then...then Mina died. The dawn painted her body in pink shades, flooded the grass with sparkling gold, and dyed the white roses of her crown scarlet. She slit her throat. Ragged a sharp spike into it. As it turned out, even the tiniest rose spikes were deadly. It was a nightmarish and, at the same time, majestic end to her story. The image of Mina haunts me in dreams even now—this distant gaze in her pearly eyes and a complete absence of fear of death. No, Mina wasn't afraid. She welcomed death as an old friend, graciously opening her arms.

It was her exodus. I remember screaming loudly. Blood thundered in my ears, and tears flowed in an endless crystal stream. I screamed that my name wasn’t Rosa; that I wasn’t her, and never would be.

Her funeral was truly a royal one. Rain and thunder rattle in the sky, as if raising a toast in her honor. The flat haloes of the black umbrellas swayed peacefully as the guests made their sorrowful speeches.

Mina seemed to fall asleep, dressed in an old-fashioned wedding dress, lying there like a princess, drowning in thousands of roses. The flowers were brought at dawn. Their color was deep and dark, as if every petal was filled with the gloaming of the night. They mourned with me. But I knew better. It wasn’t the end; it was the beginning. Death follows life in an endless cycle of rebirth. When one flower fades, plant a new one. Back home that night, I found a black envelope at my door, sealed with a monogram wax seal.

It lacked an address and the sender's signature. The message was clear and concise. "I live for you, my Rosa."

· · • • • ✤ • • • · · I went to the window and opened the curtains with my newfound determination. It’s time to stop being afraid and run away. Whatever it is, I’ll find out what happened to Mina. Let her start it all, but I’ll be the one to finish the story. The last surviving girl.

· · • • • ✤ • • • · · How naive I was then, how stupid. The moth always flies to the flame, attracted by the warm fluttering light; he himself goes to his death.

I was that moth. Without realizing it, I came to my inevitable fate, which has been waiting for me for centuries, maybe longer. Their hands have stretched out since the darkest times, when the light didn't exist, and the Devil was as real as you and I. At that time, everyone knew his face, felt his hot breath on his skin. The story I’m going to tell you isn't going to be bright and sweet; we’re going to go down to hell and come back. I'll take you through the dark woods to the horrors of uncharted lands where barefoot priestesses rock their sharp teeth in alluring smiles. I will take you to the castle where the prince rests in a crystal coffin and make you drink wine that tastes like blood.

Now I have to ask you, "Are you afraid of the dark and what’s hidden in it?" But my question is, "Love, do you like roses?"

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softagenda · 10 months

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drunken dance (ais)

ais x reader(f) (mature)

alternate universe / dancer!mc / assassin au

originally posted on ao3

masterlist

Preview

His gaze soon returned to the prima, inspecting her with fresh eyes.

She was panting slightly, her face turned upward as her arms slowly dropped to her sides. Gold magic continued to exude from them, the fine mist now cloying and viscous, drooling from her veins like honey.

The prima then glanced up, searching for a moment before finding him in the crowd. She held his gaze for a moment, a flicker of something sharp awakening in those pretty eyes.

Ais tilted his head back, his mouth curling.

Interesting.

_________________________________________

The Red Banquet ebbed and flowed around you in a roiling, scarlet ocean of silk and sound.

You watched over the early embers of the party as Eridia’s elite mingled, sparkling jewelry swinging as they danced, laughed, sneered, and drank themselves to oblivion. Soon the ceremonial dance would begin, and you would be called to the stage - for now you hid in the shadows and explored the palatial inner sanctum of the temple.

“The night’s still young, yet some are already getting sloppy.”

You glanced over your shoulder as Mhin approached, slinking through the shadows of the wall until they had reached your side.

They were already dressed for the dance, in the ensemble that the troupe leader had painstakingly chosen for the occasion: the silk top hooked around their neck in a glittering chain of pearls, descending in a shimmering garnet swath to a matching band across the hem wrapped above their waist, the tiny beads bouncing against bare, pale skin. Two gossamer shawls hung from their arms, cinched at the shoulder, a golden cuff around the bicep, then once more at the wrist. Trousers of the same fabric billowed down their legs to golden anklets that sparkled and chimed with tiny bells.

Mhin moved silent as a ghost despite the jewelry dappled across their frame. A veil of silk hung across his nose and mouth, masking his expression.

“The more, the better,” you said. Drunk people were easier to manipulate.

They braced themselves on the banister, lilac eyes trailing over the crowd. “I always knew their kind never gave a fuck about the common folk, but this is… beyond even my imagination.” Their eyes narrowed on the massive fountains of white wine, tables full of enough fine food to feed ten times the guests present. “Throwing a party, wasting so much money and food, while hordes of Soulless terrorize the villages. Disgusting.”

You crossed your arms and leaned your hip against the pillar. “We’ll have to remember to circle back round to the kitchens after…” you trailed off, sharing a look. “With Leander’s help, we can haul back some of the food for the kids.”

Though the mask hid their expression, you could tell exactly how Mhin felt at the idea of eating the noble’s leftovers - in a word, homicidal - but the thought of Fenrir, Silvia, and the other troupe children stalled that infamously sharp tongue.

“They would certainly appreciate it more than this lot,” Mhin scoffed. “I doubt a single one of these prissy noblewomen will eat much, even as their pig partners gorge themselves.”

Hoping to lighten the mood, you nudged them with your foot and smiled when they met your gaze. “Silvia would be beside herself at that mountain of fruit.”

The corners of their eyes crinkled as a reluctant smile likely formed beneath the veil. “Huxtly would stick his whole head in the chocolate fountain. Make himself sick, probably.”

“Fenrir could eat a whole one of those pheasants by himself.”

“If he could snag one before Yulia devoured them all.”

Grinning, you pushed off from the pillar and leaned on the banister next to them, your shoulders bumping. For a moment, you both enjoyed the idea, the banquet and all its glamor falling away amidst this pocket of peace. Your heart lurched wistfully in your chest.

“Soon.” At their sideways glance, you continued in a hushed tone, “Soon we’ll be able to give them that. To see the look on their faces, when they have so much food they can’t possibly eat it all.”

Mhin stared for a long moment, before they sighed. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. One wrong move, and our heads will stand on pikes outside the temple gates.”

You frowned. “We’ve swam through far more dangerous waters than this,” you said with a nod toward the party.

“Don’t be flippant. Monsters roam these halls, the likes of which we’ve never seen.” Their hand reached out and grabbed your wrist, their words a fervent whisper. “Don’t trust anyone. Never let your guard down.

You huffed and stood up, tugging your wrist back. “This isn’t my first performance, Mhin. Don’t you trust me to handle this?”

“You, I trust. Them… him ….” They shot a seering glare at the stage. An empty throne sat in prime of place, a behemoth crafted from snow white, glittering Abaranth silver. A priceless treasure, bought with the brutal culling of the Abaranth people. Mhin’s people. “Never.”

Seething hate burned in their eyes - an enmity born of extraordinary suffering and loss. They had never spoken in detail about the massacre of his village, but you had noticed the remnants of that pain all the time: in the way he gripped his dagger in his sleep, the way he flinched at a campfire that flamed too high, the viciously protective way he guarded you and the troupe members, especially the children.

You looked over the party again.

These people had rejoiced. They had clothed themselves in jewelry hewn from that purest silver and danced on the mountains of corpses they had wrought to attain it. Thousands killed to slake that insatiable lust.

All of it made possible by the god of this temple.

The Vessel of the Seaspring and his army of Soulless.

“I’ll be careful,” you reassure them softly, your gaze on that empty throne. Determination to see this through burned white hot in your chest. You would succeed. And with this victory, the futures of so many would be saved.

Spurred by that thought, you glanced at the entrance of the hall and immediately caught the eye of a man lingering in the doorway, his arms folded over his thick chest. Leander’s mouth lifted into a smile, his chin jerking toward the interior.

“Looks like it’s time to get dressed,” you murmured before rising and heading toward the staircase. After a moment, you felt the shift in air as Mhin caught up and walked at your side, their arm brushing against yours.

_____________________________________

Ais hated shit like this.

When he reluctantly strode out of the shrine gate and took his place on the thick cushions of the throne, the crowd of nobles cheered and toasted their glasses, spilling wine onto the floor. They didn’t seem bothered at all by his lack of response, too caught up in the drunken revelry to care if he watched them all with utmost apathy.

With a pointed look at his man by the door, Ais enacted his plan to hurry along the events of the night and return to his rooms to laze about in solitude. Well, mostly solitude - he’d probably invite Princess to join him, maybe one of the dancers if they excited him.

Much as he’d like to, Ais couldn’t abstain from the entire banquet altogether - Ocudeus demanded his due from the horde of bloodthirsty humans - but he could decide how long and when. He figured, if he came for the dancing and ceremonial offerings, he’d at least be somewhat entertained and fed well.

Then, he could leave and sink into oblivion once more.

Chin propped on his palm, one leg thrown over the arm rest of the throne, Ais sat through two performances. The first was an instrumental ensemble with a variety of horns he’d never seen before. The second had dancers, but the kind that put on a theatrical performance, with exaggerated drama and a scene where one person was tragically killed by another.

The crowd dabbed the corners of their eyes.

Ais yawned.

He’s contemplating the swirling red wine in his goblet, contemplating leaving early regardless of Ocudeus’ wrath, when the third performance swept into the room.

Near drowsing, he watched the dancers glide into position in the center of the room, draped in fluttering red robes and glittering pearls. A cluster of musicians set up close to the stage, their instruments polished and primed. He paused as a familiar face appeared just behind the musicians: short dark hair, emerald eye, a winsome smile on his handsome face. Leander.

Ais tilted his head, curiosity peaked. The mage rarely made an appearance in the palace of the Seaspring - before Ocudeus had swarmed his influence over the kingdom, Ais had been a frequent visitor at Leander’s pub. They used to be something close to friends.

Leander’s attention was riveted to the center of the hall. Ais followed his gaze.

The dancers had formed two rings around the stage, fixed in place with their arms out and curled artfully around them like the blooming petals of a flower. They waited, eyes bright and smiles hidden beneath silk veils, for the music to begin.

At the center of the formation was a single dancer - the prima.

Even at a distance, she shone brighter than the rest.

In addition to her ceremonial garb, she was draped in an additional robe, this one as delicate and transparent as sea foam and embroidered with the tiniest glittering gems that caught the light like a river of stars. Her long hair was swept high on her head and fixed with a crown: its frame comprised of curling, golden tendrils, cresting in the center around a massive garnet, each tentacle fixed with dangling pearls that danced with every turn of her head. The tail of her hair flowed to the small of her back, a long silky length that curled like rolling waves and gleamed under the torchlight around the hall. Her hands were the color of summer storms, in which rivers of gold branched across the dark sky.

A feast for the eyes.

Ais rose from his slouch and leaned forward on the throne.

At some unspoken signal, the musicians began to play. An eerie, seductive melody began to fill the room, a string instrument singing through the sharp beats of a drum. The dancers began to turn in place, slow and winding, before curling toward the center and rolling together, their robes forming the waves of a shore.

They twirled and writhed to the music, twining around each other, the two rings weaving together, separating, leaping around the floor as one. At their center the prima rose and fell with them, her lithe form undulating, each stroke of her arms through the air prompting an ensuing wave amongst the other dancers, as though she were the moon commanding the tides.

The lethargic tempo gradually grew more passionate and alive. He’s reminded of the insidious curl of clouds that grew in strength and torrent, until a hurricane descended from the heavens - only this particular tempest, wrapped in red silk and gold, burned like an inferno.

The prima leapt recklessly through the ranks of the other dancers, the glitter of her crown and robes parting the sea of fire like a lightning strike. At one point she danced to the front of the stage, as close to the throne as she could, and her gaze caught his over her veil.

Bright, burning eyes encircled by thick lashes and red paint. Pearls had been fixed in clusters around her temples, then scattered around her taut stomach and back, gleaming against her skin. This close, he could watch the undulation of muscle and sinew in each curl of her body, each movement graceful, effortless, as smooth as the silk clinging to her frame.

She spun back to the center of the formation as the music rose to a crescendo, her dancers all around twisting in a frenzy, and then lifted her arms. Every dancer but the prima paused, then fell to the ground like dolls whose strings had been cut.

The hair at the nape of his neck stood on end.

The gold veins across her hands and forearms suddenly flared. An aura enveloped them, golden mist issuing from her skin, and then a single ball of light formed between her palms.

Ais sat up as the ancient magic welled from within the dancer’s body.

He tensed, claws gripping the armrests, as her hands molded the sphere of magic, radiating light like a miniature star, before twisting sharply.

It burst across the air like a firework. Sparkling comets of magic flew through the air, delighting the crowd into shrieks and screams of delight. He flicked a finger as one shot toward him, redirecting it with ease, and watched as it merrily spun in the air before crashing into a statue and dissipating in a last, popping spark.

Ais eased back onto the throne, surveying the crowd. The magic hadn’t harmed any of the humans, from what he could tell. They continued to clamor rapturously, some even chasing after the last few rays of magic and grasping with their hands to try and catch it.

His gaze soon returned to the prima, inspecting her with fresh eyes.

Ancient magic presented amongst beings - humans and monsters alike - rarely but on the chance that it occurred, it did so in unique ways. He’d never seen magic quite like this, in all his centuries of existence.

The prima then glanced up, searching for a moment before finding him in the crowd. She held his gaze for a moment, a flicker of something sharp awakening in those pretty eyes.

Ais tilted his head back, his mouth curling.

Interesting.

_________________________________________________

When the servant had arrived at the guest quarters of the troupe with a summoning from the Vessel, he was met with little surprise or fanfare.

Mhin had answered the door and, after a moment, nodded tersely. “She needs time to prepare. Wait out here.”

“The Vessel will not be kept wait - “ the servant tried to stop them, only to jump back as Mhin slammed the door in his face.

Grimfaced, Mhin joined you in your corner of the dressing room. Fischa was dabbing the sweat from your body with a couple cotton pads, taking special care to refresh the makeup around your face and apply fresh glue to any pearls that slipped on your skin. “It worked.”

“Oh!” The other dancer gasped, her cheeks flushing, before she lunged for the box full of perfumes and essential oils. “How long does she have? Oh, but it’d be best if you could bathe - you can’t service the Vessel with a sweaty body. A wardrobe change, at the very least?”

A nerve in Mhin’s clenched jaw jumped, but they said nothing as Fischa was soon joined by the other dancers, who dithered around you and argued how best to prepare you for a night with the temple god.

After much debate, they bullied you into changing into a fresh ceremonial outfit - still vibrant red and accentuated by pearls and garnets, but clean, dry, and embroidered with gold sparrows and delicate blossoms.

“Just a dab of this, and you’ll be ready to go!” Fischa beamed, her fingers dipping into a lotion compact. She rubbed circles into the crook of her neck and wrists, the scent of honey and clover brushing against your senses.

You wondered whether they would be as excited preparing you for a night with the Vessel, if they knew what you intended to do with it. Still, you would never return their kindness with anything less than gratitude.

“Thank you, sisters,” you murmured, clasping her hands and offering a slightly wan smile.

“You know, I can’t remember whether we’ve had a talk about… intimate relations,” Rukia chimed in, wrapping an arm through your elbow. “Have you been with a partner before?”

“Yes,” you said immediately, shutting down that frightening prospect before the other dancer got any further. “I’m aware.”

A series of knocks banged impatiently on the door to the quarters.

Fischa shared a look with Rukia when something seemed to occur to her. She hurried to a small dresser and dug around inside before returning with a small compact. She handed it to you with slightly pink cheeks. “Take this. Surely the Vessel won’t be… too passionate, but just in case.”

Confused, you opened the lid. A clear, viscous salve sat inside. You stared at it for a moment before her words sunk in.

Your cheeks burned.

Clearing your throat, you screwed the lid back on with clumsy fingers and tucked the compact in your pocket. “Thanks, Fishca,” you said, avoiding everyone’s gaze and turning toward the door.

Mhin grabbed your arm and pulled you to a stop just before the door. In their hand was a thin, ornate dagger, the blade purest white.

You tucked it within the folds of your pants, strapped to your hip with a leather belt. The drape of your robes should hide the slight bulge - it might cause a bit of trouble unsheathing the dagger, but you’d make it work.

Mhin leaned close and murmured in your ear. “Don’t hesitate. If anything seems off, do whatever you have to to get the fuck out of there.”

You nodded.

“I’ll be nearby.” Their hand brushed across the bracelet at your wrist. It was enchanted with a spell that, when activated with magic, would signal the matching one on Mhin’s wrist to vibrate.

“If you need me.”

You nodded again, this time grabbing their hand and squeezing for a moment, before lifting your chin and striding toward the door.

The harried servant, clearly both irritated and panicked to have been kept waiting, hustled you through the palace at fast as he could.

Despite having an excellent sense of direction, you soon found yourself struggling to remember the turns you’d taken, as each hall looked identical with its blood red walls and black marble floors, when the servant guided you around one last corner that opened up to a larger room with a vaulted ceiling.

You paused on the threshold, sucking in a gasp.

Amongst the luxurious velvet walls, the towering, worn mahogany doors set at the top of an equally ancient set of stairs looked unnatural. Around the circular room, grotesque statues lined the walls - no, not just statues.

Soulless.

Your stomach lurched.

“Come, this way,” the servant ushered, hovering and gesturing insistently but apparently unwilling to touch you. “Please. He’s been waiting for so long now.”

You swallowed around a dry throat and followed on slightly shaking legs, your eyes darting around the room, trying to keep as many of the monsters in sight as possible. Still, even as you reached the bottom of the stairs, not a single Soulless had so much as twitched in your direction.

Hell of an entrance. Literally.

“Up the stairs, through the doors. Go, go.”

You’d ascended halfway when you realized the servant hadn’t accompanied you. You looked over your shoulder.

The servant was gone.

Only the Soulless remained in the room. Where before they had remained as still and lifeless as statutes, now every red eye in the room opened and fixed upon you.

Terror shot like fire through your body.

Sprinting up the steps, you burst through the old doors and slammed them shut behind you, your heart pounding in your head, your chest.

Fighting to calm down, you forced your breath to slow and let your hands fall from their panicked barricade on the door. You sighed as your body cooled, a drop of sweat racing down your spine. Fischa’s anxious attempts to blot your sweat were all for nothing.

Once your heart had stopped racing, other sounds began to filter into your senses. The soft whistle of a breeze through a cavern. Gentle, bubbling movement of still water. Groaning wood beneath your feet, the faint creaking of hanging metal.

Steeling yourself, you turned around and faced the inner sanctum of the Seaspring palace.

__________________________________________________

She was a cautious thing, for sure.

From atop the rafters, Ais watched as the dancer took short, quiet steps further into the sanctum.

She drew her robes closer, the chill of the room drawing goosebumps across the bare skin of her stomach and arms. She stopped at the edge of the water, taking in the vast temple encircled by the aging pier, the torii gate that towered above, the lanterns and talismans swinging idly amongst the mahogany pillars. Sweat cooled on her brow, her eyes bright and calculating.

“Hello? Venerable One?” she called out into the room, her voice echoing to the depths of the cavern.

He rolled his eyes at the title. The humans found something new to call him every decade or so, each more foolish than the last.

She waited but, upon receiving no response, began exploring the left side of the pier. When she reached the tea pot and cushions, she hesitated before lifting the lid and peering inside. Searching for poison? Or just curious what the Vessel drinks?

Ais smirked as her nose crinkled.

She stood up again and looked around. Her curiosity led her to the closest pillar, covered in white paper talismans. For several minutes, she read their contents, a furrow in her brow.

“What would you wish for?” he asked.

The dancer jumped, her hand reaching instinctively to her hip as she searched for the voice. Soon, she looked upward, finding him amongst the rafters. Her eyes narrowed above the veil.

“Your Excellency,” she demurred with a bow, even as her sharp eyes held fast on his form.

He tilted his chin, resisting the urge to smile. “Answer.”

She considered him, that quick mind working behind those bright eyes, before she replied, “I would never dare to wish for anything, without a full understanding of the terms.”

Now, he smirked. “Smart.”

He could tell from the spark in her gaze that she held a sharp reply on the tip of her tongue but kept silent. “Speak freely,” he said, bracing his arm on his bent knee, a pipe hanging from his fingers. “I prefer honesty to pointless pleasantries.”

The dancer bowed her head in acknowledgement. “As Your Excellency wishes.” After a moment of silence, she asked, “For what reason has Your Excellency called for me?”

“Good question. Not sure yet.”

Her brow furrowed again. Her hands twisted in the silk, the many folds of her robes flowing over her arms. During the performance, the other dancers had reminded him of flowers, but she was too animated to remind him of such a staid thing. No, more than a flower, her movements - the way she dove and soared, leaped and tumbled through the air, reminded him of a sparrow flitting through the many bows and trees of a forest, carrying the light of the sun on her wings.

She looked around the room for a moment before turning back to the tea pot. “Shall I prepare a fresh pot then?”

“No need.”

He watched as she moved to the tea pot and prepared to remove the leftover grinds, then hesitated. Where moments before the pot had stood cold and empty, a full, steaming pot of tea awaited her. Her gaze darted toward him in question.

Ais pulled from his pipe and said nothing, curious what she’d do.

After a moment’s deliberation, she lifted the handle and poured two servings into the nearby cups, her brow furrowing at the deep red color of the tea.

A short laugh escaped him.

Affecting an air both graceful and ever so slightly annoyed, she settled on a cushion and held her cup in hand, her nose poised over the steam as she tried to subtly smell the batch.

“Is this wine?” she finally asked, after failing to place the flavor.

“Something like that.”

He blew out two long furls of smoke from his nostrils before rising from the rafter and dropping down onto the pier beside her. She stiffened briefly but recovered well, her head dipping in a chime of clinking pearls and gold, as he approached and took the cushion opposite her.

Ais leaned back on the pillar and whistled.

Soon enough, the scratching of claws across the ancient wood grew closer until Princess turned the corner of the temple gate, her many tails wagging behind her, the handful of wet, amber eyes around her head rolling as they surveyed the room, the dancer, and himself. She trotted toward him, her snout prodding into the side of his face, before curling up at his hip.

Ais dropped a hand on her back, his fingers brushing her fur.

The dancer had stiffened, her back ramrod straight, fear mixing in with the lovely scent of honey and spice around her. Bemusedly, he realized the addition didn’t put him off in the slightest.

After several moments, she relaxed again, hiding her eyes behind the thick rim of lashes. She lifted the cup to her mouth, took a delicate sip, and then set it back on the ground again. “How can I be of use to you, Your Excellency?”

“Use?” He took a long drink of his own cup and savored the burning down his throat. “What do you think?”

Ais watched the quicksilver calculation flash through her eyes. Then, her posture shifting, she seemed to settle into her determination.

Her robes loosened, the sumptuous weight falling down around her elbows, pooling around her hips. The smooth skin of her shoulders were bared, her head tipping forward to allow her long hair to spill over them in soft curls. Her eyes narrowed again, not in calculation, but in sleepy, languorous seduction.

Ais let his bent leg fall to the side, opening his lap.

She took the invitation without hesitation, all curves and silk as she crawled across the distance and settled on top of him. This close, he could sense the brimming magic swimming in her veins, the golden branches across her hands and arms shining with power.

Her hands smoothed across his chest, the tips of her fingers teasing beneath the folds of his clothes, before sliding around his shoulders and settling at the nape of his neck. She curled into him, those bright eyes inches from his own, the veil hanging between their mouths.

He could sense her breath on the air, could taste it across his tongue.

The smirk that spread across his face was an evil thing, even to his own mind, but still she did nothing as he tugged the edge of her veil from its fastenings and took her mouth.

______________________________________________

He kissed like a demon.

His tongue invaded in a hot rush of teeth and breath, his mouth working with a fervor at complete odds with his attitude thus far. You’re swept in the tide, hands seeking purchase on his thick shoulders as his hot tongue found yours, each brush of rough wet muscle a torrent on your senses as you struggled to keep your wits about you.

He tasted strangely spicy, the thick mulled wine from the teapot seeping across your palate. Each shallow swallow of the taste burned a line down your throat and settled in your stomach like whiskey.

Countless times, you’d lured targets just like this. Honeypot was something of a specialty, for all that you’d rarely engaged in true intimacy. You could separate the sensations from your head, your thoughts always focused on the mission, dissociating the physical from the mental. Missions just like this were a dime a dozen - entice, approach, distract, execute. Simple. Straightforward.

Nothing about this felt simple. Never before had the pleasure been this strong, this mind-numbingly good - never had it been this difficult to just think when a target laid hands on you.

Heat flooded your body, pooling in the pit of your stomach. When his hands braced your waist, scorching palms a brand on your skin, mischievous thumbs stroking along the dips and plateaus of your stomach, every nerve in your body seemed to perk up and come alive with tingling pleasure.

You broke the clasp of his mouth, panting as his tongue swept across your lip.

Red eyes bored into you, their weight intense and all-consuming. The Vessel pulled you against his chest, his hands guiding your hips down into the valley of his lap, and instinctively they began to grind against him, as though called to dance by a lewd melody you couldn’t hear.

A stifled moan rose in your throat as the hard jut of him notched against your sensitive mound and rose to meet you, rubbing deep and slow against your clit through the perilously thin fabric. God, he’s big. You felt yourself growing wet, your arousal dampening the silk further, heightening each brutal brush against your folds.

Sweet, heady fog began to slip into your head, teased and tormented on the precipice of that perfect, elicit friction.

The air between you felt cloying, humid and hot. You tossed your head back, fighting for breath and swallowing a moan as his eager mouth found your throat and proceeded to nip and suck.

The mission. Don’t forget what you’re here for - oh fuck, that’s good .

You struggled, searching your memories for the fuel to keep on trick. Mhin’s face, the glimpse of hollow grief on his face at the mention of his village. Fischa and Rukia. Huxtly, Fenrir, and Yulia, playing out in the fields around the tents, the breeze carrying their laughter.

Gritting your teeth, you dragged your hands from around his neck, down the firm planes of his chest and covered his where they sat on the curve of your waist and guided your hips in their lazy, exquisite dance against him.

You held his wrists and drew him upward, until his palms smoothed over the bottom of your rib cage, his fingers teasing along the hem of your top, pearls on thin gold chains slipping over his knuckles. He took the invitation eagerly, roaming beneath the silk until his hands cupped your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples, testing the firm points as those terrible red eyes watched your face, devoured your flushed cheeks and hazy eyes.

Your pleasure seemed to feed his and vice versa, a conduit forming as riotous heat and lust charged the air between you.

Your hands left him to his devices, namely torturing you with flicks and pinches and hot handfuls of skin, and then returned to your waist, gripping your own hip bones as though bearing down on the thick ridge of his cock. Your right hand slipped within your pants and found the handle of the dagger.

His tongue licked a hot swath up your neck, his mouth lingering by your ear, his breath puffing against your jaw. You turned and caught his mouth again, sucking his tongue inward, your head swimming even as you fought to think.

With a quick jerk, you pulled the dagger out of its sheath, cutting through the fabric of your pants, and lifted it into the air, poised above his neck. Your grip tightened, prepared to tilt and plunge the blade into his jugular, when -

Your body froze.

What - what’s happening . Every single nerve in your body continued to sing with pleasure, your mound aching like an open wound, your skin tingling with the heat radiating from his body and touch.

Your mouth gaped, paused in the middle of a deep kiss, as he sighed and leaned back, his gaze tracing the blush on your cheeks, the dawning horror in your eyes. His hand slipped out from your breast and cupped your jaw, his thumb brushing against your bottom lip and dipping inside to tease your still tongue.

“Should’ve known not to drink from my cup, sparrow,” the Vessel said, his red eyes narrowed in satisfaction, before inspecting the raised dagger with interest. “Looks sharp.”

Then he withdrew a couple inches, just enough to bring his face closer to the weapon. “Oh…?” He met your paralyzed gaze over the blade. “Abaranth steel?” He tilted his head thoughtfully before a smirk spread across bruised lips. “So it’s personal.”

You watched, terror quickly replacing the fading pleasure in your body, sucking the warmth from your veins until sweat lay cold and dry on your skin, your heart racing furiously.

The Vessel dragged his hand down your neck, across your shoulder and down your arm in a mocking caress, fingers cupping your elbow teasingly, before reaching the thick gold veins embedded in your skin. “Wanted a closer look at these, but… turns out there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

You fought against the unnatural paralysis with all your might, those same veins he traced with his thumb lighting up with stifled magic - but to no avail. His words bubbled to the surface of your panic. You glanced down at the mug you’d taken barely a sip of.

The wine?

The Vessel hummed low in his throat, his gaze pausing on your face, before a slow smirk spread across his mouth.

Checkmate, sparrow , he whispered, but not once had his lips moved to form the words.

Your heart pounded in your chest, panic building to a crescendo, your body vibrating as though struck by lightning. What is this? What did you do to me ? you thought feverishly. What did I drink ?

His scarlet eyes flared, their malevolent glow burning like banked embers in the gloom of the temple. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the tea pot’s lid spun off the frame and onto the ground nearby. He hooked his fingers over the rim and lifted the pot until the chamber was level with your eyes.

Thick, blood red water sloshed from within, dribbling down the side of the pot.

The same water that ebbed beneath the pier.

You stared, a scream echoing from the distance.

Now , he mused, his voice almost bored even as it invaded your mind, let’s see what secrets you’ve got tucked away in this head of yours.

_____________________________________

a/n: comments and likes are appreciated!

#ais reader fic #ais x reader #touchstarved fanfic #touchstarved reader fic #ais touchstarved #touchstarved #touchstarved imagines

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razieltwelve · 1 year

Text

Yun-Farron Solutions (Final Rose AU)

Fang took a moment to savour the scent of the cigar before she took one last puff and then tossed it onto the creature bound by the ring of salt and a handful of esoteric seals painted onto the ground in blood.

“You bitch!” the creature screamed, writhing as the flames spread over its twisted, malformed body. “I’ll kill you! I’ll your family! I’ll kill your fucking dog!”

Fang smirked. Being a werewolf had its benefits. Being able to smoke a cigar without worrying about cancer was one. Being able to use her own blood for seal work without worrying about dying of blood loss was another. But the best thing was being able to laugh at creatures like this for being stupid enough to pick a fight with a werewolf on a full fucking moon.

“You won’t be doing shit.” Fang tossed some more kerosene onto the screaming creature. “Those seals? I’m not sending you back to the Pit. You’re on a one-way trip to Oblivion.”

The creature renewed its struggles, but it wasn’t going anywhere. She’d tracked this damn thing for close to a month. She’d learned exactly what it was, so she could pick seals that would exploit its vulnerability to the max... and then she’d waited for a full moon, so those same seals could be empowered by her werewolf blood.

It was the difference between chugging around in a car with a cute, little V4 engine and roaring around the neighbourhood in a beast with a V8 under the hood. The seals might not be the most efficient things she’d ever thrown together, but they packed a fucking punch like a bazooka.

The creature stopped screaming after another ten minutes. Just to be sure, Fang waited another five minutes before sweeping the ashes into a pile and dousing them in acid. A spritz of holy water on the remains was the finishing touch.

Satisfied that the creature was not only dead but was actually going to stay dead, Fang pulled out another cigar.

“That is an awful habit to have.”

Fang didn’t bother to turn. “Finished up already, sunshine?”

Lightning’s scowl was a physical force. “Yes, actually. The cultists responsible for summoning that thing were surprisingly forthcoming with information.”

“Was that before or after you ate a few of them?”

“I am a vampire, Fang. I do not eat people. I drink their blood.” Lightning sighed. “Was the holy water really necessary?”

“You can never be too careful. Besides, it’s not like it can actually harm you.”

Lightning wasn’t some paltry fledgling in the same way that Fang wasn’t some newly turned pup. Holy water might annoy her, but that’s all it would do.

“Even so. It’s presence is... aggravating.”

Fang turned. As usual, Lightning was dressed like something out of a gothic novel. Ancestors... vampires really did take fashion seriously, especially the older ones. Gods forbid they dress like regular people. Hell, even the younger ones had their own styles, the most popular of which was a kind of steam-punk re-imagining of what they thought the classical era had looked like.

Lightning dressed sort of like that... but then again, she’d actually lived through those times.

“I can tell what you’re thinking,” Lightning drawled. “And I am not about to take fashion advice from someone who dresses like a hobo.” A century or two ago, the words might have been laced with genuine contempt. Now, however, there was only fond exasperation behind them.

“Yeah, well, there’s not much point in my wearing expensive clothes everywhere when transforming rips them to shreds.” Fang took a puff of her cigar. She should order another batch soon. She was starting to run low. “What did you find out?”

“They learned how to summon that thing from an acolyte of a very old friend of ours.” Lightning’s eyes narrowed and flashed scarlet for a split-second.

“Fuck.” Fang snarled. “Salem? Was it asking for too much for the bitch to actually stay dead?”

“Fang, we both knew she was unlikely to stay dead forever. That’s what happens when you bind your soul to a slumbering eldritch monstrosity who is most famous for eating a whole bunch of other eldritch monstrosities. At the very least, however, she can’t be at anything close to full strength if she’s sending her acolytes out to teach a gang of barely literate conjurors who have only just barely glimpsed the surface of the Twilight World.”

Fang sighed. Shit. She really should have brought some booze. As if reading her mind, Lightning tossed her a bottle of bourbon. “Where’d you get this?”

“Fang, if I’m going to murder a whole gang of cultists after tearing through their minds, a bit of theft is hardly going to matter. Besides, it’s not like they were in any condition to appreciate it.” Lightning waited for Fang to take a swig straight from the bottle before doing the same. “We’re going to have to get the band back together, so to speak.”

“Yeah. If Salem is back, we’ll need all of them.” Fang could already feel a headache forming despite her werewolf physiology. “You realise that nobody has even seen Raven for, what, three hundred years or something?”

“Three hundred and twenty-five to be precise.” Lightning’s brows furrowed. “But Summer might know where she is. Even if she hasn’t said anything so far, she’ll tell us once she knows Salem is back.”

“Yeah. That’s true.” Fang glanced up at the moon. “You can handle that, right?”

“Summer and I are still on speaking terms,” Lightning said with careful blandness. “Although she may be reluctant to leave her current... life.”

Fang chuckled and shook her head. “I almost admire her audacity, thinking she and Taiyang can just settle down and live regular lives. None of us can. Once you’ve walked in the Twilight, there’s no going back, not for people who’ve gone as deep as we have.”

"True. But I can’t blame her for trying.” Lightning turned. “We should go. We have calls to make and plans to devise.”

Fang laughed and followed her. “At least Vanille will be happy. Who knows what kind of shit she’s got prepped in case of emergency?”

#final rose #fanfiction #lightning farron #oerba yun fang #fangrai

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nine-blessed-hero · 2 years

Text

Self-Indulgent Modern AU

Universe: TESIV: Oblivion - Modern/ Everyone Lives AU CW: Swearing, canon-typical violence Words: 7,951 Context: Instead of, y’know, writing The Ruby Falls, I have instead been daydreaming about what I’m calling the Self-Indulgent Modern AU - the version of the Modern AU where Martin is Aderyn’s father... and therefore she’s a Septim. Fair warning, I'm not sure if I consider this finished or not, but it came to a nice final point. So, we'll see. Available on AO3 Tagging: @mishkakagehishka @strosmkai-rum @arcane-elder-scrolls @bread-of-death

It starts with the Red Diamond – the Key to the Septim's Vault in which lies Numidium.

As soon as it's placed in her hands, still warm from Uriel's palm, it becomes the most important object in her universe. Uriel's words, "the future is in your hands", are taken literally, and the Red Diamond becomes something she has the burden of protecting, in the interest of protecting the future.

When the stone is taken from Jauffre, she's every bit as angry and guilt-ridden as he is. The vicious joy of lifting it, still warm, from Mankar Camoran's corpse is unmatched.

Then Martin shatters it, and it shatters her. The future, as Uriel prescribed, is gone; spread into a million scarlet pieces on the CEO's office floor. The pieces are gathered, sticky with Martin and Mehrunes' blood, shoved into a bag, shoved into an empty coffee can, solved into a corner of her Land Rover, and... not forgotten about, per se, but not acknowledged. Not commented on, the subject swiftly avoided if brought up in conversation.

Martin gets better. He wakes up from the coma. Aderyn goes to see him, gets as far as his hospital ward, and stops. He shattered the Key. He shattered the future that was entrusted to her. He may have performed the act, but she was the cause of it. No one's said anything, it never comes up in conversation during those long dark weeks where Martin's still asleep, but Aderyn knows, it was her actions, her screwup, that destroyed something good. Martin is the only person who knows, firsthand, how badly she screwed up, and she can't stand the thought of how he'll look at her now.

She drops off the face of the Earth.

The Fox knows people who know people, and Aderyn winds up in Germany, Red Teaming for a company whose name translates out to "The Corner Club". (Ariahnod receives a postcard each week from places she's never heard of, confirming her daughter's continued health). It takes a few months, but she stops being the taciturn girl the Crisis made her. She talks, she laughs, she learns to swear and order alcohol in the myriad languages of Europe.

The coffee can is dragged out of its dusty cubby. The blood, now dried, is washed from the shards. Epoxy is acquired, and so begins the most infuriating jigsaw puzzle.

People help, that's the part that surprises Aderyn the most. When she has friends over for drinks and dinner, they poke at the shards, find parts that match, place them carefully together and set them aside for her to glue together later. They don't understand the puzzle, but they're invested in her success (the partner of a cousin of a colleague, a woman she met exactly once, hails her on the street and asks if it's done yet). They don't know, and she doesn't explain, they're helping her glue the future back together. She deeply appreciates it.

Eventually, the Red Diamond is as complete as it's going to be. She takes it to a jeweller and has it set in a gold mount. It lays on her chest, warm from her skin, and for the first time in four months, Aderyn switches on her phone. The most recent message is a text from Baurus: It's my birthday in two weeks. We're having the old crew over for dinner. It would be good to see you again.

Aderyn mentions it in passing to her manager. Within a week, she finds herself standing on the front step of a London townhouse, magnum of champagne in hand, having been requisitioned by the Grey Fox for a job suspiciously close by. The Diamond is stuffed into a pocket – she's sure no one will want to see the reminder of her failure.

Dinner is... fine. No one mentions she's been incommunicado for four months – it's all the same camaraderie as if they'd never left Cloud Ruler. Fortis asks about the gold chain hanging from her pocket, prods and teases until she snaps at him in German to eat a bag of dicks. Caroline finds this hilarious; when it's translated, so does Fortis.

In the break between dinner and present opening, Aderyn sneaks into the garden for a cigarette. Jena joins her and gently asks to see the hidden item. The Diamond is reluctantly revealed. Jena runs her fingers over it like she can't quite believe it's real, hands it back with a smile and damp eyes.

There's a hesitant cough from the kitchen door. They look up to find Martin standing there. "He's about to start the presents," he says. Jena squeezes Aderyn's shoulder and goes inside. Martin has to step aside to let her pass, and the door swings closed after her, leaving just the two of them in the garden. The diamond seems to blaze in the night.

"Is that..." he asks. "I'm sorry. You weren't- I'll put it away..." Aderyn says, but then he's in front of her. "Unless you... want it?"

Martin takes it from her unresisting hands, holds it up and examines it. He shakes his head. "No, I don't think so. You've done a good job fixing it up." He places it around her neck, where it settles, warm, on her chest. "I'm glad you came back."

~*~*~*~

It starts with Ariahnod Griffiths (née Williams, née Griffiths), and Martin Septim (née Smith).

In between her work for the Grey Fox, Aderyn protects Martin. It's taken another month or so to adjust to being back in his and Baurus' lives, and Martin is still adjusting to being a CEO. Ocato has pressured Martin to attend a party that he's maybe not quite ready to attend. Aderyn has gone along as backup hands. It's needed when Martin is overwhelmed and the Blades decide to take him home. She and Jauffre are left to patch things over.

Aderyn is supposed to be staying overnight at Martin & Baurus' place, but she's been drinking. Jauffre tells her to get her overnight bag from her car, and he'll drive her back.

She doesn't make it.

Someone has planted a bomb under her classic Ferrari, and it's sheer dumb luck she isn't inside the thing when it blows. Aderyn winds up in hospital. Ariahnod walks through the doors of the hospital suite, takes one look at Martin, and a screaming match ensues. Baurus, ever the peacemaker, separates irate Mother from confused ex-Priest.

Over a coffee in the hospital cafeteria he asks the inevitable, How does Ariahnod know Martin?

She knew him in University, Ariahnod says. A few years older than her, smooth talker, not really the studious type, gave his degree as "studying the philosophy of anatomy". Baurus is confused, so Ariahnod elaborates: Martin is one of four men who could be Aderyn's biological father (there were some women too, but there's less chance they're a parent). Aderyn doesn't know and Ariahnod has no plans to tell her – she seems quite happy believing that Robert Williams, the bricklayer from Brighton, is her father.

Baurus, of course, knows about Party!Marti. Not in explicit detail, but enough. Even so, it concerns him that neither potential Father nor potential Daughter knows about this. He wants to tell them, but Ariahnod is adamant – Aderyn doesn't need another father in her life. Baurus tells her that ship left port a long time ago and has since circumnavigated the globe.

When Aderyn is better, Baurus leaves the hospital with a new secret, and Ariahnod leaves with a lot to think about.

~*~ This is all canon so far, but this is where things diverge. ~*~

It starts again with the Red Diamond.

Today is a bad day, a board meeting of Tamriel Industries has blown up into a full-on political argument; the Blades have taken Martin to the nearest park to 'get some air'. A bad day turns into a worse day when a splinter group of the Mythic Dawn attack. Aderyn and Roliand are covering Martin's retreat, and somehow the pair of them get separated.

Her fight is going fine until the Red Diamond slips from under her shirt. The Agent of Dawn steps back, eyes wide. "You carry the Key," he says. "So it is true – you are a Septim Brat." Aderyn is too flabbergasted to respond. Then the Agent's eyes narrow. "With both you and the Key, we can finally honour Lord Dagon." Anger flares through Aderyn. "The fuck you will!" But before she can act, the Agent of Dawn is tased. The police have shown up.

She elects not to put what the Agent of Dawn said into her official report and statement. It's irrelevant, really. The ravings of a madman. She tries to forget it.

~*~*~*~

A week later, the Agent of Dawn's words are still itching their way through her head. An unfriendly reminder of something her father, Bob the bricklayer from Brighton, once said at the height of an argument keeps joining it: "I wish I'd never agreed to take you on".

It's foolish to entertain the notion that Martin, not Bob, is her actual, biological father. What are the odds? Microscopic, that's what. The Mythic Dawn are just confused because she's half his age and they share a close bond.

But it still can't stop her asking, one day over breakfast, "Marti, hypothetically speaking, how would you feel if you found out I was your daughter?"

Baurus chokes on his cornflakes. Martin nearly spills his tea. Pelagius starts to exclaim something, but the rookie he's training smartly shoves a hand over his mouth.

"What, dearest," Martin says, delicately setting down his tea, "has brought this on?" "I dunno. 'S just a thought," Aderyn mumbles into her coffee. "Nevermind. Forget it."

Baurus leaves the room, presumably to change into something not covered by milk and cereal.

Martin is silent as he finishes his tea. Aderyn thinks he's forgotten about it, as requested. Until they are taking the dirty dishes back into the kitchen when he pauses in the middle of filling the dishwasher.

"Aderyn?" She stops rifling through the snack drawer. "Nothing would change. You do know that? I would still care about you the same way I do now." He contemplates a moment. "Actually, no: I think I would worry more." "Really?" "Really really."

Aderyn launches herself across the kitchen to hug him, so full of feelings, they leak from her eyes.

~*~*~*~

The next incident is a month later. She's in Southampton with Methredhel. They've just finished a site consultation and are on their way back to the car to visit Uncle Modryn when Aderyn is attacked.

They're walking down an alley - dark brick and dirty paving. Two men are coming towards her and Methredhel. They split, such that the women are forced to walk between them. Aderyn's hackles are already raised. Then, as she passes them, one grabs at the chain around her neck. She plants a foot on the man's inner knee and pushes. At the same time, she feels a burning sting down her arm and Methredhel is screaming, "Get away from her, fuckhead!"

The man Aderyn has kicked cries out, but his grip doesn't loosen. In a moment of savagery, she bites his hand. He releases his grip with a startled yell. Behind her, there's a dull thud and a masculine shout. Aderyn doesn't need to turn to know that Methredhel has smacked Goon #2 with her very solid and tool-filled handbag.

Aderyn backs up, pulling a small can of aerosolised grease from her utility belt. Beside her, Methredhel is pulling out a mace spray. The two men turn tail and run. Methredhel swears at the men's backs in what Aderyn assumes to be Hindi, and she has to pull Methredhel away from the scene.

By the time they get back to the car, Methredhel is shaking (so is Aderyn, but she ignores it better). They climb in, and Aderyn plies Methredhel with a handful of sweets then starts to call in the attack.

To: jeNNAAAH! From: Pizza is not a vegetable Code black - actual. MD made a grab for the Diamond

"Oh my god, you're bleeding," Methredhel says suddenly. Aderyn looks down at the nice slash mark from her bicep to her elbow. "Oh," she says. "'Oh'? 'Oh'!" is Methredhel's incensed response. "Fuck you and your fucking 'oh'."

"It's not that bad, 'Hel. I'll get to it in a moment. I've got to call this in," Aderyn says, but Methredhel is already clambering into the back of the Land Rover to fetch out the first aid kit. Aderyn sighs and finishes the text, letting Jena know that she and Methredhel are fine.

There's a lot of kerfuffle about a tiny scratch. When they get to Uncle Modryn's, Methredhel submits a police report and Aunt Sabine fusses over Aderyn's arm. When they get back to London, Jauffre is waiting for Aderyn and demands a full report. Breakfast is interrupted by the Rookie, Garrus, announcing Captain Lex has arrived.

"Oh, Christ no-" "Language..." "Tell him I ain't here, leave a message and I'll get back to him never." "I'm glad to hear you still hold me in such high regard." "Fuck!-" "Language!" "-You coulda told me here was here-here." "Sorry, marm..."

Lex is here, it transpires, because Aderyn's name was flagged from Methredhel's report. And where Aderyn is, the Mythic Dawn is also, and they've become an unintentional pet project for Lex. He also wants chapter and verse about what happened, the incident before too, and to be kept in the loop if there're any more incidents. Aderyn makes vague promissory noises; Jauffre wholeheartedly agrees.

~*~*~*~

The next incident is nearly three months later. Aderyn is at a security conference in Düsseldorf, where she's been invited to speak. She and a friend from the Corner Club, Sottilde, have been up late chatting and gone out to a fast food joint. Sottilde has gone to the loo and Aderyn is gazing out of the window, nibbling on a chip, when a van rocks into the car park. Not so unusual. But then it takes two laps around the car park, despite it being two am and nearly empty, and stops three spaces down from her land rover. Out climb four men. They are far too interested in Aderyn's car for her liking – nosing around, peering through the windows. She sighs – she misses the days when the Mythic Dawn were easy to spot in their red body armour; now she has to go by instinct alone.

"Does that door lock?" she asks the boy at the counter in German. He looks startled. "Yes?" "Good. Lock it." He dithers. The men outside have satisfied themselves that Aderyn is here and are making their way towards the shop. "Now!"

As he scurries to do her command, Aderyn moves into the bathroom.

"Sottilde?" "Yes?" comes her voice from the far stall. "There's, ah... A problem I need to deal with. Out front. Can you stay in the toilet?" The loo flushes. "What?" Sottilde asks, coming out of the stall. "What problem?" "Some people who don't like me much have shown up." There's a noise from the shop. "Please. Stay here." Sottilde growls. "You think I'm some barbie girl? Let's send them packing." She stalks past Aderyn.

In the small, overbright restaurant, they can see the men rattling the doors. They don't look very secure, and Aderyn starts dragging a table over. Sottilde picks up the other end.

"Sol, I don't think you're a barbie girl, whatever the fuck that means, but these are serious fucking bastards. Please, just stay in the back." "No. There are four of them and only one of you. I will not stand by." They shove the table against the doors. "Let me handle it!" "No!"

There is a sharp retort from the door. Cracks spiderweb out from where an Agent of Dawn has shot the door. He's lining up another. Both women high-tail it over the counter, where the boy is already hiding.

"Is there a backdoor?" Aderyn asks him. He nods, and points. "What's your name?" "Sebastian." "Sebastian, call the police."

The boy nods and reaches for the handset on the wall. Sottilde is already heading to the back and Aderyn hurries after her.

"Sol, wait!" she calls. "You don't- Stop!" But Sottilde has already wrenched open the heavy fire escape. Gunshots sound. Sottilde screams. Aderyn leaps forward to slam it shut again.

"Guess we're not going out that way..."

Aderyn finds the first aid box, patches Sottilde up, and drags a barrel in front of the door.

When they return to the front, the boy holds the phone out "She wants to speak to you," he says. Aderyn takes the phone. "Yes?" "My name is Miriam, I'm the dispatcher for your call. Sebastian said you were in charge? Whom am I speaking with?"

Aderyn gives a rundown of who she and Sottilde are, what their situation is, and why the men outside want her. The line is silent just a little too long after she's done, and when the woman speaks again, it's with a touch of awe in her voice. But she remains professional, makes no mention of the title Aderyn hates so much.

"The police will be with you in twenty minutes. The paramedics cannot have access until the police have made the area safe." "Understood."

They transfer the call to Aderyn's mobile which she links to an earbud. All her weapons are in the car. "Sebastian, I need a broom." He points to a mop and bucket. "Will that do?" "Perfect." She snaps the mop head from the wooden handle. "The police will be here soon. We've just got to hang on. Is there a storage room?" Sebastian nods. "Good. I want you to hide in there and stay until the police come." "Vögelchen," spits Sottilde. Aderyn isn't sure when they stopped using German, but it doesn't matter. There's a crash from the door. One of the Agents of Dawn is climbing through. There isn't time to argue. "Hide," Aderyn says, and vaults over the counter with her broom handle.

"Miriam, just out of interest, what's the law on reasonable force here?" "Broad. You said they have guns. What do you have?" "A stick." Silence. "I would not have thought I would need to wish the Hero of Kvatch 'good luck'." "The Hero of Kvatch always needs better sodding luck."

Goon #1 and #2 go down easily enough. Goon #3 reminds her she's been at a conference since nine am the previous day, and it's now three in the fucking morning, and she's just fought two other burly blokes.

Goon #4 is... just waiting. Unnervingly so.

Not that it matters because Goon #3 is kicking her ass.

"May as well give in now," says Goon #3, after a particularly brutal kick has sent her to the floor. "We will take you, Septim. We will have Lord Dagon's revenge." "Stop. Calling me. Septim," she grinds out, rising.

It's unfair. With every utterance, they add kindling to the tiny, idiot part of her that desperately wants this to be true. That she's actually related to someone good, and honest, and kind. That it's sweetness and light that runs in her veins, and not vileness and hate. Martin is the best person she's ever known, and secretly she would adore being his real daughter. But she's not. It's an impossibility. And it's unfair they keep reminding her of that.

Anger stokes the waning adrenaline. Goon #3 isn't out, but he is almost down. Then #4 steps in. She's nearly down herself. A blow to the face splits her cheek, and she's leaning heavily on the makeshift staff.

They're boxing her into a corner. A jab here, a parry there. She doesn't think anything's broken, but she's exhausted. The police are almost there, Miriam says. They might be too late.

"Do you think we would fight so hard," says #4, "if we weren't sure you were the child of Martin Septim?"

"I know what it says on my birth certificate! My father is scum, who cheats his customers and cheats on his wife! Martin is not my father!"

"We had your blood checked." The goon grins and licks her blood from his first. "Septim red-drink is the sweetest of all."

Aderyn thinks she's going to throw up. The sweat on her skin feels like it freezes instantly, and dizzying nausea grips her. #3 is grinning too, and they're almost on her. She's so fucking fuc-

The men crumple.

Plastic chairs don't splinter, like in the movies. They just deform slightly. Sottilde and Sebastian stand behind the crumpled goons, holding wonky plastic chairs. In German, Sottilde tells the Agents of Dawn to eat a bag of dicks.

~*~*~*~

"They're wrong!" Aderyn slams her hands on the conference room table. She's been back in England two days before Director Preston summons everyone to a meeting at the Priory. She's at one end of the long table, Preston at the other. It feels like everyone else in her life is arrayed against her.

"Two witnesses and the dispatcher confirmed what's said on the recording is accurate," says Hieronymus Lex. It's been pointed out that Aderyn omitted this information in her police statement and Blades' report. Her excuse that she forgot is starting to come apart.

"The Mythic Dawn are wrong," she corrects. "Dearest, what if-" Martin tries. "No. Listen. I know who's listed on my birth certificate-" "Do you?" murmurs Baurus. "-and I'm sorry, but neither of them are you." She can't help but spit it. Martin pales, misunderstanding where the venom in her voice comes from.

"We all heard what was said on the recording," Captain Lex says. "It's worth investigating."

"They're lying!"

"At the very least," says Preston, "we should assign someone to your protection."

"I don't need a fucking bodyguard! We can't afford to take personnel away from where it's really needed." She waves towards Martin.

"They're going to keep trying, Aderyn," Jena says. She's using the Calm Big Sister voice, and today it rankles. "Whether they're right or-"

Aderyn straightens. "You're going to believe a bunch of deranged blood-drinkers over me?" She tears the Red Diamond from her neck, slams it on the table. "After everything I've fucking done for this, you're calling me the liar?"

The Grey Fox stands up. "That is enough." His tone sends the room temperature plummeting. You could hang icicles off his words. It's the tone that says 'you go too far', the tone that warns she's on the verge of losing her job. It's the tone that would usually have her shaking in her boots, would make her sit down, shut up and put up. But she's too wound up, too scared, masking her fear with too much anger.

"You're goddamned fucking right it is."

Every door in the Priory slams as she passes through them on her way to her car. Martin, ever loyal, ever faithful, follows her down.

"Where are you going?" "Anywhere that ain't fucking here!"

~*~*~*~

She turns her phone off and hurls it into the back of the Land Rover, picks a direction and drives.

This is worse than the last time she left, Aderyn knows. She may not have said it, but she wonders if Preston and the Fox heard the 'I quit' in her voice. She wonders if she has a job anymore. Doesn't matter, says the anger. She doesn't need any of them, doesn't need any of this shit. She's fine on her own, always has been. All she needs is a full tank of fuel, the open road, and a direction.

After an hour or so, she finds herself on the M4, heading West, to the Welsh border. The Land Rover, like a mare confident in her rider's tics and quirks, knows where she needs to be and who she needs to talk to. Past the Severn, she goes North and climbs the first reasonably tall hill she finds. She stops at a triangulation point, staring out at the dark, undulating mounds ahead. The world is empty, up here. Civilization, the hustle of a city, is safely distant. The anger that has been on a constant low boil since she left the Priory comes back full force, and she screams, long and loud, into the rain-spiked wind. A dozen sheep go careening away, the only witness to her rage. She screams again, the frustration of a kestrel with her wings clipped. Her independence was hard won, fought against Bob, against her mother, Ariahnod, against a world that didn't give two shits about her destitute, Eurotrash arse. And now she'll have to do it all over again, against Jauffre and Lex, and the goddamned piss-faced cunts of the Mythic Dawn. The screams turn into sobs, great heaving things, that leave her like a marionette with its strings cut, crumpled at the foot of the triangulation plinth as she weeps herself into oblivion.

The sky was low when she got there, late afternoon. Now it's lit by a half-moon, and she's being woken by doggy kisses. Aderyn groans and pushes the fuzzy snout away. The Colly backs up, sends three pitched barks out into the night, before returning to her curled form and sticking it's cold wet nose in places where a cold wet nose should not be.

"F'off," she says, sitting up.

The dog backs up and barks at her expectantly. When she doesn't move, it darts back in, nosing at her legs.

"Alright! God. Stop herding me." Aderyn stands. She's as cold as the ninth level of hell, stiffer than a shot of Celtic Poteen, and feels like she's been on a 4-day bender.

A shrill whistle cuts the air, and the dog stops harrying her.

A lilting Valleys accent greets her. "Ah, you're alive. Good. I hate filling out the paperwork for a body." A woman in a waxed coat, tall and handsome as the mountains, is watching her. The shepherdess holds out a hand. "Isolde Jones. This is Sylwgar. He's very good at finding lost little lambs."

Aderyn introduces herself through chattering teeth. Isolde takes her to the shepherd's hut nearby and plies her with black tea that's like molasses and a large tot of brandy. They talk into the night about why Aderyn came up here in the first place, scared Isolde's sheep, and then thought it was a good idea to fall asleep on an exposed mountainside in November. After hearing the tale of woe, Isolde decides Aderyn might have a point and packs her down with a blanket to sleep in front of the fire with the dog. In the morning she's sent off with a few griddle cakes for breakfast and told to take care of herself better.

By lunchtime, Aderyn has reached the Valleys village her mother moved to. Ariahnod says she just wants a quiet life now, and here she has it, taking stock photos of the beautiful Welsh countryside.

"Hello?" Aderyn calls as she knocks on the door and walks in. The cottage is tiny but not cluttered. Exposed beams and whitewashed walls create a sense of cosy history.

"In the kitchen," Ariahnod calls. Aderyn follows her nose through the cottage, following the scent of bread.

"Helo, cariad." Ariahnod stands, short auburn hair fluttering in a breeze, and embraces her daughter. "Cyfarchion, Mam." Ariahnod tuts. "Too formal. You didn't get very far with your lessons, did you?" They sit down at the table, where lunch has been spread out: a thick doorstep loaf, local-churned butter, gammon ham and pickles, Bara Brith, and strong tea.

They talk about everything and nothing as they eat. Then, as Aderyn is finishing her tea, Ariahnod says, "So. You never visit me. What's made you come by now?"

The problem, Aderyn knows, with being intuitive in your methods, is that sometimes the subconscious doesn't let on to the conscious mind what the hell it's up to. As much as she likes to anthropomorphize her car, she knows it was her subconscious that brought her here. Aderyn opens her mouth and waits for the explanation to fall out.

"Do you know where my birth certificate is?" Ariahnod twitches at its mention, and when she speaks, it's dismissive. "It's probably in the roof. Lots of things got slung up there when I moved." Then, suspiciously, "Why?" Again, Aderyn hopes her brain's got something up its sleeve. "The Blades need a copy. We got a new HR bod, and they're looking through everyone's records." Her mother raises an eyebrow. "I didn't ask why. It's HR. You do as you're told, yeah?" Aderyn gives a half smile. Sometimes, she thinks, it should concern her how easily she lies to her mother.

Ariahnod huffs. "Access hatch is above the hall, there. Ladder's in the garden shed." She starts clearing the dishes away, her manner brusque, which makes Aderyn wonder.

Still. She fetches the ladder, goes into the loft, spends the cold, drizzly afternoon sorting through boxes until she finds a battered Roses tin with her name on it. The packing tape which sealed it has long since dried and come apart, the way tape is wont to do after 20-odd years. Aderyn pulls the lantern closer and balances on the beam. She pauses. She could put it back, pretend she never found it, go back to London and live with being attacked every other month until Jauffre forces her hand. But she's never been one to be dictated to. She opens the tin. There are baby pics, grainy with age. A passport photo of her on her mother's lap, bold blue eyes staring at the camera under her mother's green. A doctor's card listing vital statistics and vaccinations. Her hospital armband, not much bigger than a £2 coin. It lists her as 'Griffiths', which isn't surprising – her parents weren't married yet. Some milk teeth and locks of hair, already golden orange. Under all this – the paraphernalia acquired by a newborn – is a flimsy sheet of paper, folded into quarters. Aderyn tugs this out, places the tin aside. Her hands tremble slightly as she unfolds the paper. She scans the details, surprised that her place of birth is Newport, not Southampton as she thought. A chill grips her as she finds the space for the father's name blank.

"Mum?" Aderyn walks into the kitchen, clutching the birth certificate.

Ariahnod is sat at the pine table. Two cups of tea and two chasers of clear liquor are already on the table. Aderyn puts the paper on the table, next to her mother. She feels stiff and robotic, all thoughts on ice.

"Explain."

Ariahnod takes the paper, uncreases a folded corner, and sighs. "I don't know who your real father is."

Ariahnod goes on to explain about her wild Uni days, about how none of the four men who she slept with would agree to a paternity test – Martin included. She went home. Her parents – Aderyn's Nan and Grandpa of whom she's never heard of, much less met – wanted her to give up the baby. Ariahnod wouldn't do it.

19 years old, homeless and with a babe-in-arms, she turns to family friend Modryn Oreyn, currently living on base at the Marine Camp in Poole. He's due on rotation soon; the house will be empty. She's introduced to the other families on-base as his sister. He's nearly ten years older than she is and they look nothing alike, but no one says anything. Ariahnod goes on the dole, and things are hard, but they get through.

When Aderyn is two, Ariahnod meets Robert Williams, the bricklayer from Brighton. She's at a supermarket, Aderyn is colicky and screaming the place down. Ariahnod is trying to juggle a bottle of milk that's up too high and a trolly and a screaming infant... The milk is the thing that gives. It explodes, covering mother and babe and every other fucking thing in a five-foot radius. Bob comes to her rescue. He's so sweet and kind, gentle, calm, and confident. He makes her feel special and not a fuck-up. They exchange numbers and part ways.

By the time Modryn returns from his rotation, Ariahnod has decided that Bob is The One, and is making plans to move out to be nearer where Bob is working. Modryn does not like Bob; but he wants Ariahnod to be happy and Aderyn to have stability, so he keeps his trap shut, and prepares to be there if things go south. Ariahnod and Bob move in together on an estate in Southampton. When Aderyn is five, the adoption papers go through, and they're married.

"And, well. You were there for the rest." Ariahnod shrugs. "Legally, Bob is still your Dad, just not your biological father."

Aderyn takes her shot of poteen, down in one.

It's a lot. Too much maybe. She stays the night in the cottage, then drives North, to the Brecons. There she spends some quality time brooding up a mountain, before driving west, to the dramatic coast at Fishguard and Cardigan Bay. Brooding by the empty Irish Sea does as much good as brooding up a mountain, and so she drives south and east, to the Forest of Dean. But the trees do not soothe her either, and she's running out of dramatic terrain. She stays North and East; Worcester, Birmingham, Notts, Lincoln, the Wolds. She rocks up finally in Grimsby, on the banks of the Humber, having run out of land. Short of driving around to Hull and getting on a boat bound for Belgium, she's not going any further.

Aderyn hates to leave a question unanswered. She's coming to terms with the past and what Ariahnod told her, but it still hasn't answered the pivotal question. Aderyn can't go back to Martin, back to whatever life remains there for her, without knowing if he really is her father.

Orange glare lights up the dark fleecy sky, making the twilight hazy. The rough voices of fishers and industrial noise settles into the background. Water sloups against the crenellated, rusting dockside, sending up the tang of brine and dead fish. The air sits clammy on her skin.

Somehow, it's more of a balm than tree and mountain, and it's there, between the darkling water and the sodium-lit fish sheds, she finds her way forward. There's only one true way to get the answer she needs, only one way she can do it without involving anyone else. Her path lies South, to London and the White-Gold Tower at the heart of the Septim dynasty.

~*~*~*~

It's too easy to get to the Vault; Aderyn is pissed off by this, but it's a secondary concern right now. She uses an exploit Carwen found to access Martin's calendar without leaving any footprints, picks a time when he's scheduled to be in a long meeting away from the CEO's office. Down the A1, and into London. She leaves the Landy on the outskirts, uses cash to buy her ticket for the Tube, takes the backway into the building, keeps her head down and carries a box past the loading bay security. She's cloned her credentials, changed all the identifying fields to NULL, and she uses this to get up to the last stationery room before the office. There she grabs a manilla file folder, stuffing it with blank paper. Now is the part where it might go wrong. In the corridor to the CEO's office, Aderyn peeks around the corner. There's a Rookie at the door standing on her own, a tall, well-built woman with black hair, Alex- something. Fortis must be close by, which means she needs to hurry.

Aderyn straightens up, holding the file like a shield, and strides to the door, credentials already in hand.

Alexis(?) comes to attention. "Marm," she stutters out. "I wasn't aware you were back." "I'd appreciate it if it stayed that way. I'm just dropping a... note to Martin." Aderyn stops and looks away, face creased. Then she sniffs and rubs her nose as if her eyes are wet. "More personal than an email. Easier than a conversation." She gives Alexandrea(?) a tight smile. "Of course, marm." The woman swipes Aderyn in using her Blades credentials and doesn't bother checking Aderyn's. Something else to add to the list. "I may be a little while. I thought of some things I want to add on the way up." "Of course, marm."

Inside the office, Aderyn heads straight for Martin's desk inside the glass partition. She scribbles the items she's noticed on the paper, adding an illustration to a post-it note stuck to the folder. It's supposed to be a raptor sitting on a branch – it looks more like a penguin. Then she does the complicated little dance that takes her, unseen by security, to the vault. No way around the camera pointing at it, she just has to pray no one is looking.

The vault is a formidable thing. Dark steel, a foot thick, only accessible by the sleek, light grey console beside it. She's seen Martin use it once, watched the little lights turn green as it had confirmed his parentage by iris and blood markers. They'd tried the Key too, but whatever fragile design was etched inside it is too broken now; the vault can never be opened.

She takes a breath, lets it out long and slow like she's pulling a trigger, and places her hand inside the sleeve of plastic. There is a pinprick. A drop of cooling blood slides down the pad of her finger into the analyser. Her eyes are glued to the confirmation panel, as the seconds tick slowly by.

The light turns green.

She has to force her knees to lock.

For absolute surety, she places her eyes on the scanner. A light flashes in her vision, and she withdraws, just in time to see the second light turn green.

For a long moment, she can't move. Then, abandoning all pretence, Aderyn leaves the office. She gives Alexa(?) some genial salutation, and leaves via the front, straight into the nearest pub.

Aderyn hasn't thought this far ahead. She assumed the lights would turn red. She has no sodding idea what she's supposed to do now.

~*~*~*~

Hieronymus Lex finds her on the same bar stool three hours later. He sits down on the stool next to her, and with half a brain cell, Aderyn notes he's in uniform.

"Griffiths." "Piss off, pig."

Lex motions to the bartender that she's had enough. He lets her finish her current drink though, which is nice, considering.

"I assume you drove here. Where did you leave your car? I'll drive you home." "Finchley."

She can feel Lex is giving her some kind of look, but she just takes another sip of her drink. "The other-side-of-the-City Finchley?" "Yup." A sigh. "What exactly was your plan here?"

Aderyn shrugs. "Go back to the car, sleep it off. See Marti and B when I'm sober?" She finally looks over at the copper. "I ain't going back to Martin piss-drunk like this, got it?"

They enter a staring contest.

Eventually, Lex huffs and looks away, enunciating in beautiful Essex diction, "Fuck!"

Lex ends up taking her back to his place. It's exactly like she imagines a copper's place to look like. Neat, ordered, minimalistic. She's set up on the sofa, painkillers and water and a bucket close to hand.

"If you throw up on anything besides that bucket, you're paying to have it cleaned." Aderyn waves an uncoordinated hand. "Fine."

Lex drags a chair over. "What happened to you?" he asks, elbows on knees. Aderyn closes her eyes. "Do you know how much wrath I'm risking by not announcing you're here? The least you can do is give me some details."

He has a carriage clock on his mantle. Its tock resounds in the silence.

"Went and saw me mam. Found out I've been lied to. My entire bloody life. And I had to find out from the Mythic fucking Dawn. Martin's-" She stops. "He's got a one-fourth chance of being my bio dad." "You were gone nearly a fortnight." "Had a lot to think about, didn't I?"

He leaves her alone then, curled in the not-quite dark on a sofa that smells of musk, to contemplate what comes next.

~*~*~*~

She's greeted by hugs and worried, weepy eyes. There's a lot of palaver. Some of the Blades have come up from the Priory. "You owe me several drinks, Rook." This from Jena. Roliand squashes her in a bear hug. Baragorn tells her a place and time when she is having a medical. Ferrum says it's been too long since they all went out. Then she tells Martin the four words everyone dreads – "We need to talk".

They go up to Martin's office.

"I... I was wrong," she says. "According to my Mum, there's a one-fourth chance you're my father." She relays some of what Ariahnod told her. Martin nods along, his expression contrite.

"I was not an especially nice person back then," he says. "Too inflamed with greed and the power that seduction brings." Aderyn has guessed about his party days. There have been hints and broad mentions of it in the time she's known him, but he's never explicitly admitted to being the man he was then; at least not to her. Now he speaks of the Dionysus-esque cult he was part of; of some of the frankly horrific things he was party to. "I remember your mother very clearly. She seemed wild and unbroken. And, back then, I liked a... challenge." He goes on to mention Ariahnod's revelation she was pregnant. "You know, I'd always thought I'd hallucinated it. I was on acid, and there was a dragon in the tree behind her which was rather distracting." He huffs out something that could be an ironic laugh. "No wonder she slapped me."

They each take a long drink of tea.

"I suppose the question is," Martin says, "what do you want to do now?"

Aderyn's gaze finds the shelf of knick-knacks and fixes on a bottle filled with coloured sand. He continues, "I'm more than happy to have a test done. If that's what you want. Or not. You know. In case..." In case the result isn't what they want. She should tell him about the vault. She opens her mouth, but what falls out is, "Do you- D'you want to be my Dad?" She looks back. His eyes are soft, his smile gentle. "I seem to already be acting like it," Martin says. "Do you want to be my Daughter?" The world takes on a wobbly haze. Her voice squeaks out around the sudden lump that forms. "Yes." His shoulders relax. "Well then. That's settled." His smile broadens. "No testing required." Aderyn swallows, mouth dry, smile wonky. "Yeah. Sure. No testing."

~*~*~*~

Life continues, more or less, as it was.

Martin and Aderyn decide not to appeal her adoption order to Bob the bricklayer. It's a lot of stress and hassle, a lawyer tells them, for a process that has little chance of success. Baurus still calls her 'little bird', but now there's something lighter in his face when he does.

Jauffre is overjoyed, inasmuch the hoary old goat is ever joyful. He rules that, since Aderyn has no Septim blood, she can keep her position in the Blades. The implication that he would revoke her status as a Blade is all that stops Aderyn from admitting what the Vault showed. He's still concerned about Mythic Dawn attacks, but he's far more relaxed about Aderyn's assertion she can handle it.

Armand gives her a damned strong talking to and the Fox doesn't talk to her for nearly a fortnight, but she gets to keep that job too.

There's been no movement from the Agents of Dawn.

She has two parents who don't treat her like a burden, actual friends – not mere acquaintances – who enjoy her company, two jobs she adores, and a reason to keep bungeeing back to the same home. Everything is settling into a life that Aderyn is proud to have.

It lasts four months.

~*~*~*~

The rookies – Alexine, Garrus, and Christophe – have completed their training and are now full Blades. As tradition dictates, they have been taken down to the local pub for a pissup. There is a fair group of them, as they stagger and sway down the lanes at midnight towards the barn they'll be bivouacking in. Christophe and Ferrum lead the merrily inebriated, Achilles, Fortis, and Garrus just behind. Roliand, Jena, and Pelagius follow them up. Aderyn and Alexine trail at the back.

Alexine is the one that saves her.

The black van comes out of nowhere. Tires squeal and brakes screech as it stops, the door slides open and people in red body armour grab her. Aderyn is drunk and too slow in her movements. Alexine is less soused and freshly trained; she wraps her arms around Aderyn's lower waist and pulls, hollering for backup. The Dawn have Aderyn's arms, and a tug of war ensues. Aderyn, for her part, is struggling, twisting to loosen everyone's grip. Then something cold slides into her bicep and, though she remains mostly cogent, she goes slack, unable to control her limbs.

Things become a bit blurred, then. She feels her body tugged this way and that; the helplessness is infuriating. Alexine is yelling, there's shouting from the front of the van. Hot blood brushes her face. A gun goes off. Perhaps it's the other way around. Suddenly she's on the narrow pavement, held securely in Alexine's arms. Jena is talking rapidly into a phone nearby. Christophe is clicking his fingers in Aderyn's face.

"F'off," she says. He's trying to ask her something, probably running through the first-responder questions. But he's too quiet and everything else is too loud. "Don't need hospital," Aderyn adds, because she'll do anything to stay out of the damn places. She can tell by his expression he disagrees. "Jen? I need-" Alexine still has her arms around Aderyn, which is good, because she's suddenly really bloody cold. "Need t'tell you summint. Jen?" A warm hand slips into hers and there's the smell of melons. Her eyes have closed while she wasn't looking and all she can hear is water rushing, like her head is in a river. But Jena is there–

~*~*~*~

The next thing Aderyn knows, she's waking up in an unfamiliar bed in a near-dark room that smells of antiseptic. There's one big window inset into the wall, the curtains splayed open to highlight a figure. They're all lean lines, rimmed with the spill of silver moonlight and cold LED streetlights, like an elf from the Mabinogion. Only the glistening pate gives them away.

"Gramps?" Aderyn croaks out.

He's beside her in a flash, offering a sip of water. Once she's sated, he takes her hand. "You," he says affectionately, "scared the shit out of me. Kindly don't do that again." She mumbles her sorries. Then, "Is everyone-?" "Achillie has a fractured wrist. Pelagius took a knife to the arm. Garrus has a hefty concussion." The old man gives a grim smile. "It could be worse. I hear our rookies performed admirably." "I should buy Alexine some flowers," Aderyn agrees. Her tone is blithe, hiding the guilt that's surfaced. As a Blade, she has a responsibility firstly to the Vault and then to the Septim line. But she also has a duty to her sibling Blades. They deserve to know what she is, and what they were protecting.

"When's Marti gonna get here?" she asks. "Not long, maybe half an hour." He squeezes her hand. "Good. Cuz, um. Director, there's something you need to know."

#martin septim #hero of kvatch #baurus #jauffre #the blades #hieronymus lex #tes oblivion #The Elder Scrolls #writing #oblivion fanfiction #oblivion fanfic #TESFic #modern oblivion au #haven's ember series #oc aderyn griffiths #oc ariahnod griffiths #wandering words

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undertale-writing-times · 3 years

Text

Undertale Asks

If you have any questions for any of the undertale guys or AU’S just tell me! I’m real excited to get this started and going >w<

I made a kofi!

https://ko-fi.com/fandomtimetime98714

The ones that I write for, the aus, are under the cut cause it’s long.

Undertale- Sans, Papyrus

Underswap- Blueberry, Stretch

Underfell- Red, Edge

Horrortale- Axe, Noodle

Fellswap- Lord, Mutt

Swapfell- King, Alpha

Fellswap Pink- Overlord and Pup

Swapfell Emerald- Commander and Hound

Fellswap Gold- Chief and Wolf

Swapfell Silver- Royal and Fang

Fellswap White- Prince and Canine

Swapfell Rainbow- Leader and Beast

Fellswap Sugar- Grandeur and Behemoth

Swapfell Spice- Tycoon and Brute

Fellswap Sky- Cloud and Bat

Swapfell Wood- Superior and Exo

Fellswap Night- Brilliance and Werewolf

Swapfell Day- Vivid and Lycan

Fellswap Kindness- Ruler and Pooch

Swapfell Justice- Sheriff and K9

Fellswap Steam- Crowned and Whelp

Swapfell Tears- Dynast and Mongrel

Fellswapkiller Pink- Rebel

Swapfelldust Emerald- Shards

Horrorfellswap- Regicide and Cur

Fellswap Fire: Luce and Hellhound

Swapfell Freeze: Baron and Pawls

Fellswap Blush: Palace and Cad

Swapfell Rose: Duke and Bull

Fellswap Anchor: Captain and Dogfish

Swapfell Ocean: Regent and Coyote

Outertale- Cosmos, Galaxy

Dreamtale- Nightmare Sans, Dream Sans, Passive

Horrordream- Oxi and Sleeper

Dreamfell- Coma and Gloom

Mafiatale- Wiseguy and Bones

Mafiafell- Clip and Boss

Mafiaswap- Books and Crank

Dreammafia- Envy and Pride

Killermafia- Calamity

Dustmafia- Tragedy

Errormafia- Crisis

XMafia- Misfortune

Horrormafia: Scourge

Farmmafia- Field and Crop

Lustmafia- Diva and Charm

Inkmafia: Vibrant

Farmtale- Corn and Harvest

Farmswap: Sheep and Duster

Farmkiller: Shot

Farmdust: Soil

Echoflower Sans- Repeat.

Underlust- Lover and Hearts.

Unlust Sans- Heartbreak

Lustswap- Beau and Dreamboat

Reapertale- Reap

Dreamspirit: David and Wraith

Tubetale: Screen and Keys

Merkiller- Mimic

Merdust- Ringer

Horrordragon- Burn

Killerdragon- Arman

Dustdragon- Levi

Dreamdragon- Chua and Dracul

Shifter

Swaplust: Maiden and Vestal

Lust!Ink: Eros

Lust!Error: Aphro

Lust!Geno: Venus

Killerlust- Cuddles

Outerlust- Astra and Alioth

Sugartale: Sugar and Sweetie

Dancetale- Hop and Sway

Dancefell- Stomper and Jazz

Danceswap- Flamenco and Uprock

Outerdance- Ballet and Taps

Dancelust- Waltz and Boogie

Cross

Error

Ink

Ink and Error Swap- Drain and Glitchy

Static

Freshdust- Fairy

Inkkiller- Splat

Fresh

Unfresh Sans- Rad

Fresh Ink

Dusttale- Dusty

Dustswap- Powder

Dustlust: Cupid

Swapdust- Fragment

Outerdust- Stardust

Outerkiller- Shooting Star

Killer

Aftertale- Echo

Yandere Swap Sans- Yanberry

Merlust- Pinks

Lustfell- Passion and Desire

Horrorfell- Feral and Sharp

Horrorfarm- Oak and Sunflower

Outerhorror- Supernova and Sunspot

Horrorswap- Snackers and Butcher

Foresthorror- Timber

Foresthorrorswap- Bark

Horrorflower- Bud and Vine

Forestlust: Strawberry

Horrormer- Chum

Outerhorrorswap- Rigel and Vega

Dreammer- Light and Deep

Dreamswap- Daydream, Delusion

Dreamswap Killer- Mur

Outerdream- Solar, Nightfall

Dreamtale Two: Trance and Oblivion

Mothtale- Sunset

Mothfell- Scarlet

Horrormoth- Leopard

Mothlust- Rosy

Mothkiller- Shadow

Aftermoth- Lace

Dreammoth: Lamp and Shade

Dustmoth- Luna

Outermoth: Moonshine

Outerkillermoth: Lunar

Outerdustmoth: Moondust

Swapfellmoth- Droplets

Farmmoth- Leaf

Crossmoth- Halfa

Fellswapmoth- Vio

Frozentale: Chills and Shiver

Swapkiller- Slay

Farmlust- Nymph and Fae

Pastryverse: Sprinkles, Crumble, Sticky, Mallow.

Empire

Aquatica

Skillet

Determ

Outermer: Cielo and Comet

Outerhorrormer: Badar

Soultale: Soul

Dustfell: Chains

Swapdream: Moonlight and Suns

Underfreak: Breaker and Undertaker

Dustkiller: Corpse

Errormer: Inker

Inkmer: Angel

Nightmare!Papyrus: Bane

Error!Papyrus: Defect

Nightmare Blueberry Fusion: Paradox

Dream and Axe Fusion: Fever

Dreamact: Fable and Thorn

Star Sans Fusion: Starshot

Bad Sanses Fusion: Guts

Murder Time Trio Fusion: Mask

Prism

mutt and oxi fusion: Bubby

Ruler and Screen fusion: Acid Bunny

boulder and mallow fusion: Charmer

Mallow and Shimmer fusion: Vegas

Yanberry and swap fusion: Punch

Theo and Sprinkles fusion: Baker

Prince and Calamity fusion: Blank

Dream and Nightmare Fusion: Tranquility

any questions are fine, but if I don’t like it, I most likely won’t answer but I most likely will. No smut, sorry :(

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cheesyficwriter · 2 years

Text

THANK YOU to @remedialpotions for organizing another spectacular Secret Santa Exchange for the HPRomione Discord. Genuinely love and appreciate all of you for the support, fics provided, and amazing conversation we've had this year. This gift was written for @adenei, another fabulous Romione writer, beta, and beautiful friend of mine. I was so happy to draw your name and even happier that you enjoy 6th year AU as much as I do!

AO3

FFN

Hogwarts for Christmas

The roaring whistle of the Hogwarts Express signals its impending departure from Hogsmeade Station. The scarlet steam engine is preparing to transport students home for the holidays, and Ron can’t imagine better timing.

Sixth year has been tumultuous thus far for him, having experienced a roller coaster few months that would make anyone’s head spin like an hourglass on a Time Turner. The high of the first half of the year has undoubtedly been his role as Keeper on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

And the low? Well, although his unexpected relationship with Lavender Brown was new and exciting at first, it ultimately led to his worst row ever with Hermione. The start of the holiday marks the longest they’ve gone without speaking to each other. He couldn’t stomach leaving the school without breaking things off with Lav. Not only was the guilt of his feud with Hermione too much to bear, but he knows that Lavender was far more committed to him, than he was to her. She was angry, of course, and he couldn’t have run from her fast enough, afraid that he would be hexed into oblivion.

Ron sighs to himself as he walks down the too small train passageway, even uncharacteristically bypassing the Honeydukes Express witch who pushes the trolley packed with sweets, the thought of eating making him feel ill. He's due inside the Prefect carriage at the front of the train, and he'd be lying if he didn’t admit to being nervous to see Hermione — although, she'll likely ignore him as she's done in most of their recent meetings, unless it's to tell him that she's switched shifts again so that she doesn't have to patrol the corridors with him.

Upon arrival at the Prefect carriage, he does a quick scan of the compartment and its inhabitants, taking note of who is missing.

"Where's Hermione?"

It's Ernie Macmillan who responds first, his brows furrowing as if it was an odd question for Ron to ask. "I thought you knew. She's staying at Hogwarts for Christmas. Turns out her parents decided at the last minute to vacation in France instead."

"And Hermione didn't want to go with them?"

"I suppose not."

Ron’s heart sinks to the pit of his stomach. Hogwarts? For Christmas?

Yes, he's stayed for the holidays before during First Year and it wasn't terrible. But he also had Harry. The thought of Hermione being alone makes his gut twist in the worst possible way.

Granted, she won't be completely alone, as there are always a few of the professors who stay to look over the castle, but that's not really the point, is it? All Ron can do is think about how he must have truly mucked up their friendship if she felt she couldn't come to him about going to the Burrow for Christmas.

"Excuse me." Ron storms out of the carriage and stomps through the train towards one compartment in particular.

He knows he has only minutes before the train departs. If he's going to make a move, he has to act fast. Sliding a door open with excessive force, he finds Harry and Ginny, who appear startled by the look of blazing determination in his eyes.

"Harry, mate, I'm staying at Hogwarts. Ginny, tell Mum and Dad they should expect an owl from me explaining everything soon."

"What's going on?" Harry's posture stiffens as he makes a move to stand up. "I'll stay with you-"

"Nah." Ron waves him off. "You and Ginny go on ahead. Have a great time."

Harry slowly lowers himself back back onto the seat, raising an eyebrow. "If you're sure…"

If Ron is completely honest with himself, he'd realize that sending Harry and Ginny home — together — without him there opens up the opportunity for them to establish an even deeper connection than they've already formed this year. But he can't think too much about it right now.

He's out the door before his best mate and sister have a chance to utter any parting words, finding himself breaking into a sprint towards the castle. The train chugs away from the platform as he veers in the opposite direction, the roaring whistle growing quieter and quieter as the distance to home grows larger.

Ron reaches the base of the cliff leading up to the school as he’s stopped by Professor Flitwick, who holds a long scroll and a quill.

“Name please.”

“It’s Ron Weasley, Professor. Don’t you know?”

The part-goblin wizard peers up at him with a raised eyebrow before releasing an exasperated sigh. “Mr. Weasley. You do realize that the train has already departed?”

“Yes, I do.” Ron grits his teeth, his gaze flickering in the direction of the castle. “Is Hermione Granger still here?”

Without responding, Flitwick’s eyes scan over the list of names on the parchment. He presses his lips together as he intently studies the written words as Ron waits with bated breath. She has to still be here, right?

Finally, after what seems like ages for Ron — who already lacks any patience — Flitwick confirms, "Yes, Miss Granger will be remaining at Hogwarts for the holidays."

Ron releases the breath he had been holding before lifting his chin and standing up straight. "Then so will I."

"I don't see your name on the list…" Professor Flitwick casts his eyes back over the names, prominent wrinkles etched on his forehead.

“That’s, er — well it was a last minute decision.”

“I’m afraid that’s not-”

"Please.” Ron clasps his hands together, shaking them in front of his chest. “I'm her best friend." He hates the way his stomach twists at those words. He should've been a better one. "She can't be alone on Christmas."

"Mr. Weasley,” Flitwick lowers his voice with a rigid expression on his face. “Now you know-"

"It's Christmas."

The sentiment seems to make the professor rethink his course of action. Clucking his tongue, he studies Ron for a moment longer as if trying to discern his true intentions. Then he withdraws his wand before tapping it against the scroll, erasing Ron's name off the list of students accounted for.

"If anyone asks, you've simply missed the train and I had no idea you were still here."

"Thank you."

Ron takes off, jogging up the hill towards the castle entrance. Behind him, he can make out Flitwick’s quiet muttering to himself. "It just has to be Weasley and Granger."

The first thing Ron does once he's retreated back to the castle is head to the owlery to send a quick letter to his parents, explaining the situation. He chooses the speediest owl available, who should be able to make the trip there and back in a matter of hours and beat the Hogwarts Express. He doesn't fancy receiving another Howler from his mum expressing her disapproval over him missing the train. He only hopes that his family understands why.

He needs to do this.

Worry sits at the bottom of his stomach as he strolls down the empty corridors. It is quite eerie being alone in the castle, however he knows he's not truly alone.

The Fat Lady is skeptical of Ron's presence as he approaches the portrait hole. Despite her best attempt to screech 0ut a rendition of "O Come, All Ye Faithful", Ron states the password and expresses his urgency for getting inside. The haughty witch gives a small tut of annoyance before opening the guarded entrance.

Stumbling into the Gryffindor common room, his heart lifts when he spots Hermione sitting by the fireplace, curled up in one of the squashy chairs, doing what he knows her to do best.

Schoolwork.

Her head snaps up with a loud yelp at the sound of someone entering the room before stunning herself into silence once she recognizes who the intruder is. The quill drops out of her hand and lands on the book on her lap with a dull thud.

Ron folds his arms over his chest, offering her a cordial smile. "Aren't we supposed to be taking a break from revising over the holidays?"

Instead of answering his question, she states with a matter-of-fact tone, "The Hogwarts Express should have departed by now."

"I imagine it has."

"You're not on it."

"Neither are you."

Blinking her eyes at him, she purses her lips. "Well-spotted. Is Harry still here?"

"No. I told him to go on to the Burrow. My question is, why aren't you heading there too?"

Hermione shuts her book with significant force before standing up, clutching the text close to her chest. "I could ask you the same question."

"I asked you first."

"Mature." Her eyes roll upward, a gesture that is so typically Hermione that it makes Ron's lip curl up in amusement. "My parents-"

"Yeah I know. Ernie told me."

"I see."

"I wish you would have told me." He takes a large stride forward into the room, rolling up the sleeves of his jumper to his elbows after growing toasty from the warmth of the nearby fire. "You know you're always welcome at the Burrow."

"Am I?” Hermione snaps, maintaining a stoic expression that makes it almost impossible for Ron to guess what she must be feeling. “Didn't figure Lavender would really want me around."

There's the Erumpent in the room.

Ron winces at the mention of his ex-girlfriend. Although he figures this topic of conversation would have to come up in order for them to work past their issues, he still doesn’t feel prepared to tackle the unfortunate state of their relationship — especially given the intimidating glare Hermione is sending him.

"I never invited her. Besides I-” Ron scratches the back of his neck, feeling the heat on his skin. “I broke up with Lavender. I'm a real dodgy bloke for doing that right before Christmas, I reckon."

Hermione’s stern face relaxes the slightest amount and she loosens her grip on the textbook in her hands. He notices the wrinkles around her eyes, which irks him to his core when he realizes that there is no way she’s getting proper sleep.

"Why-why did you break up with her?" she manages after a short pause in a slow, shaky voice.

"Lav and I, we had fun I guess.” Ron lifts his shoulders up and down while looking at his feet, shifting his hands around in his pockets, unable to ignore the awkward tension in the room. “But it-”

His voice catches in his throat, losing all courage to continue. Come on, you wanker. Stop hiding.

“But what?”

Lifting his head, Ron meets Hermione’s eyes straight on, which seem to sparkle just the tiniest bit from the glow of the fire despite the dull light in the room.

“It wasn't worth losing my best friend."

Tears well up in her eyes, and Ron can only hope that it’s a positive sign. When a hint of a smile invades her lips, he knows that it is and he’s hit with a wave of relief to be taking a step towards normalcy again — well, what is considered normal for them, anyway.

He allows himself to take in the scenery of the room, and it’s a magnificent sight to behold. Tinsel and Christmas cards hang from the burgundy and gold walls and there is a large, decorated evergreen tree in the corner of the room with evidence of presents underneath. On some level, he does feel like he’s at home.

The evening wind swirls against the windows, bringing his attention to the glass pane. From the view overlooking the grounds below, Ron can see snow pouring out of the sky, wiping out any image of the surrounding lake.

"It's snowing!"

"What?" Hermione chews on her bottom lip as she stares off at a spot behind Ron’s head, presumably lost in her own thoughts.

"Let’s go outside!" Ron is unable to contain his giddy excitement over the change in weather.

Hermione snaps out of her daze, her eyes widening as she looks out the window. "Ron, it's freezing!"

"Aw, come on. It’s almost Christmas, Hermione!"

Hermione doesn’t appear convinced by his statement, making no move to stand out of her chair. The ticking of a clock somewhere in the room drives Ron mental after a minute passes, and he determines he’ll have to go to greater lengths.

"Look, you can either stay inside and do the work you know you’ll complete on time anyway-” Ron holds up a hand as Hermione’s mouth opens to protest his statement. “Or you can come outside and explore the grounds with me."

She wraps her arms around herself, looking throughout the room with uncertainty. “I don’t know…”

Well, she's mental if she thinks he is going to wait for her to talk herself out of joining him.

“Accio Hermione’s coat!”

The winter jacket comes flying down the spiral staircase and straight into Ron’s open hand. He tosses the coat at Hermione, who fumbles to catch it before it falls to the ground.

“Hey!”

Ron strolls to the portrait hole, craning his head to view the shocked expression on Hermione’s face. “Ya comin’, or what?”

He exits the common room, deciding to lean against the wall in the corridor with one foot propped up on the stone. His knee bounces in nervous anticipation, waiting to see if Hermione will take him up on his offer.

She exits through the portrait hole just moments later, pulling her curls from underneath her coat and straightening the earband on her head that she must have sought out before releasing a deep, aggravated sigh. Ron smirks at her, more than pleased by her decision, and she responds to the look on his face with a few choice words.

“Oh, shut it.”

They walk through the castle together in sustained silence. Hermione doesn’t speak a word the entire journey, and Ron can’t help but hyper-fixate on the way she keeps tugging at the sleeve of her jumper. He knows her mind must be moving at high speed, like a Chaser’s broom during a Quidditch match. His only hope is that their outing will alleviate at least a small amount of her stress, giving her unspoken permission to be as silly as she wants to be. He desires nothing more than to break Hermione out of her stubborn shell, to see her let her massive hair down and just be spontaneous for once.

By the time they make it to the set of double doors at the front entrance, Ron is bouncing on his heels, eager to get outside. Hermione checks over her shoulder as if she’s afraid of getting caught. The hesitance written all over her face almost makes Ron laugh, finding it hilarious given the amount of actual school rules they’ve broken in the past.

The blast of cold air washes over Ron as soon as the doors open, making his skin tingle with appreciation. A landscape of frosted whiteness invades his vision, a sight so welcoming and full of wonder that it steals all the air straight out of his lungs. Blimey, the season has barely begun and it’s already the largest snowfall he’s experienced in years.

The exterior of the castle adorns itself with twinkling white lights, and along with the white snow covering the peaks and arches of the entire structure, it makes it look as if they've been planted in the midst of a legitimate winter wonderland.

Ron finds himself gaping at the sky in awe as he allows individual snowflakes to fall into his open, glove-covered hand. He's always amazed at water's ability to turn into icy sprinkles. Even though his tattered boots are filling up with freezing water, he doesn't care. The sight almost brings tears to his eyes as he recalls the many winters of his childhood at the Burrow, evoking a particular emotional state that he can't quite pinpoint. It’s sad to not be home for Christmas, but he’s determined to still make it a truly special holiday even if it takes all of the Chocolate Frogs in the world.

He glances over at Hermione to gauge her reaction. He thinks for certain that she will complain about the snow — that she will find it too frigid, too juvenile, too wet. But in true Hermione form, she manages to surprise him when he least expects it.

"It's perfect."

Hermione’s eyes sparkle as she gawks at the sky with a pleasant flush coloring her cheeks. Never before has he seen such a joyful expression on her face — he quite likes it.

As if sensing him staring at her, she snaps her gaze towards him and he forces himself to look away as fast as possible, not fancying the idea of her spotting the redness on his face.

Piles upon piles of snow lay in wait of people making their willful reversion to childishness. Ron bends down to cup two handfuls of snow together, shaping them into perfect snowballs. Hermione is too busy inspecting a large bush covered with ice to notice what he’s doing. His cheeks burn from grinning so wide, already plotting his plan of attack with the snowball. Pulling his hand back before swinging it forward, he releases the snowball from his grip, sending it flying before landing with a soft smack on the center of her back.

A sharp gasp leaves her lips as she remains frozen in place, and for a brief few seconds, Ron regrets his decision.

Fuck. She's gonna hex me with those bloody birds again, isn't she?

Before Ron can fully comprehend it, Hermione leans over to pick up a clump of snow and hurls it with perfect aim at Ron's face.

Smack!

The impact of the pillowy white ice against his forehead sends a chill down his spine. His mouth hangs open, flabbergasted that Hermione managed to pull a fast one on him.

"Oh, now you've done it!" Ron's refilled his hands with plenty of snow before he can even finish his sentence.

Squealing, Hermione breaks out into a frenzied run, and soon they're chasing each other around the castle grounds with innocent weaponry, fighting a different kind of war with each other than they're used to.

They spend hours outside, leaving endless trails of footprints along covered paths and making sculptures out of snow. The rest of their lives seem to have ground to a halt, with no obligated busyness, giving them both a sense of what true leisure time should be like.

This day is the perfect gift in and of itself, because it's removed any pressure they have to be productive. For once, they don't need to worry about classes, or the impending war with He-who-must-not-be-named. They’ve gone on an adventurous journey without even having to ride the Hogwarts Express.

Ron also realizes as he stares at the colossal grin on Hermione’s face that the misfortunate circumstances leading up to them both staying at Hogwarts for the holidays isn’t such a misfortune at all. It allows extra time alone together they normally wouldn't have had, even if they were at the Burrow.

Hermione stumbles over her two feet, face planting into a large pile of snow. Ron keels over with laughter, hearing her aggravated snarl as she sits up with a mass of wet curls sticking out at lopsided angles from underneath her burgundy-colored earband.

Deciding to join in on the fun, Ron relishes the sensation of absolute security as he falls into a blanket of snow beside her. The world feels softer than it did before from his new vantage point. He allows himself to close his eyes, taking the chance to pause and breathe in and out several times.

“Ron?”

Pivoting his head to look at Hermione, Ron can see the nervous energy in her eyes. Despite the fun they’ve had today, a bout of unresolved issues sits at the forefront of his mind, and he can imagine Hermione is thinking the same as well.

A shared, undefinable mood sets it as the snowfall begins to dwindle. Hermione’s lips part as she’s prepared to say more-

"Mr. Weasley! Miss Granger!"

Ron sits up faster than a Phoenix rising at the sound of Professor McGonagall. Hermione mimics his actions, and together they’re fumbling to mutual standing positions, dusting off the freckles of snow that have overrun their clothing.

The professor’s brows rise high above the thin gray fringe on her forehead without even a hint of a smile on her face, although that is a rare feat for her. "Might you come inside? There's a feast in the Great Hall."

On cue, Ron’s stomach rumbles deep in his belly, and he can’t believe it’s already supper time, having been so absorbed in their snow day that he even missed lunch.

"Coming, Professor."

"Yes, Professor. Thank you."

With a sharp nod, McGonagall turns to head towards the castle. She doesn’t get very far before second-guessing her decision, and retracing her steps to offer a few additional words.

"And may I just say, on behalf of all of Hogwarts, it really is nice to see you two on speaking terms again."

The older witch doesn’t wait for a response as her emerald green robes sashay around her moving form, making a swift disappearance into the castle.

Ron’s lips fall open, and he doesn’t know whether to feel shocked or embarrassed by his professor’s perceptiveness.

Hermione’s wide eyes and gaping mouth indicate that she’s feeling the same. "Are we really that intolerable to be around when we're-"

"Rowing? Unleashing a flock of birds on the other person?" Ron teases, receiving a scathing look almost capable of shooting daggers from her eyes.

"Don't laugh!"

"I'm not!"

She points at the uncontrollable tremors on his face. "You're laughing right now."

“Well, I-”

A screech echoes from the sky, interrupting their spat.

Squinting her eyes, Hermione angles her head towards the clouds. "Is that an owl I hear?"

Sure enough, the owl that Ron had sent off earlier that day is flying towards them, a piece of parchment and a parcel attached to its leg. The bird dives deep into the snow in front of them, lacking any sense of grace, before popping its head back up and shaking the icy sprinkles from its feathers.

Ron pets the owl before freeing the parcel from its legs. "It's a letter from Mum and Dad! And they've sent presents for us, Hermione!"

"For both of us?" A quizzical smile appears on her face.

Ron unrolls the scroll, finding the letter response short and to the point.

Ron,

We are so very proud of you, son. Have a wonderful Christmas with Hermione.

All our love,

Mum & Dad

A lump of emotion lodges itself in his throat, and Ron tries to clear it with significant force once he spots Hermione reading the letter over his shoulder. In a haste, he rolls up the piece of parchment, experiencing a desperate need to change the topic of conversation.

“So, maybe we should head back up to the castle-”

“I can't believe you stayed back from the Burrow.” Hermione’s timid voice interrupts his suggestion, and he feels the heat creep up on his face despite the chilly air. “I know how important your family is to you."

"Ah, well…erm...you're important to me too, y'know."

Ron’s muscles tense up as he surveys the entire spectrum of emotion that passes through Hermione’s face until she settles on reaching for his hand, interlacing their fingers together.

Even though they’re both wearing gloves, the simple gesture ignites a flurry of flobberworms in his stomach that are difficult to contain. Once again, they’ve reinstated their friendship, maybe even on the precipice of something more.

He's had many wonderful Christmases, but he's quite certain this one at Hogwarts will remain at the top of that list.

"Happy Christmas, Ron." He feels a gentle squeeze on his hand that sends his heart pounding.

"A very happy Christmas indeed, Hermione Granger."

#romione #romione fanfic #romione fanfiction #ron x hermione #ron weasley #hermione granger #ron weasley x hermione granger #hp fanfic #hp fanfiction #secret santa #hpromione discord #fluff #christmas fluff #romione christmas fanfiction #snow #cheesyficwriter

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honeysidesarchived · 2 years

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iv. just like magic ✤ pre-cult au

john/elliot + “i can’t stop picturing you with him” + “you belong to me” + new year’s eve prompt “they were so distracted, they even missed the clock striking midnight” because i’m a GREMLIN and didn’t get your request for that done until NOW requested by @lilwritingraven

words: 2.5k

warnings: oh, u know. naughty words, john and elliot steamy make out in a cramped bathroom. i think that’s really all. oh, and elliot has an embarrassingly poor memory when it comes to men who aren’t john.

It’s fifteen to midnight on New Year’s Eve, and Elliot Honeysett has no one to kiss.

Well, that’s not entirely true; she has a date, who is almost certainly anticipating a clock-strikes-midnight kiss, and in a pinch she can convince Joey for a midnight smooch so that she’s not standing around like a big fucking idiot at party in the city where she’s floundering like a fish out of water.

I shouldn’t have come, she thinks idly, finger dragging at the rim of her glass where most of the alcohol remains untouched. She’s too stressed out to drink. There are two—two—instances in which she wants to drink herself to oblivion, and as she neither listening to her mother talk about the timeline for grandbabies nor has her abandonment-prone father cropped back up, so her stress only makes her crave sobriety more. Can’t be spinning out of control, can we, if we can help it?

In fact, her date is making eyes at her from across the room, and Joey is somewhere out of immediate reach, and the boy—Dakota? Maybe?—is very nice, he’s very nice, and—

(And that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it, that Dalton (???) is nice, but in a way that feels cloying, and his eyes are two degrees the wrong shade of blue and he keeps his facial hair close-trimmed and he doesn’t have a single lick of ink on his body, and these are significant problems that immediately remind her of the person that she wants to be kissing, which makes him so, so, so unattractive.)

—and he’s making his way across the house right that second, and Elliot doesn’t want to explain to him in a categorized list why she actually can’t kiss him (“Do you want it alphabetical, or more like…chronological?”), so she turns on her heel like she didn’t just make eye contact with him and beelines it out of the living room.

It’s a house party. That’s all it is. It’s a house party in the city, because Elliot and Joey are spending the holidays in Georgia with her mother and Joey said that she’d fucking die if they had to spend New Year’s Eve listening to Scarlet lament the lack of “good help” available “these days”. As if she has ever had anything less than pristine house staff.

So they came out to a house party. And Joey found her a nice boy, so that she can have someone to kiss at midnight.

And she doesn’t want to kiss him at all.

She moves so fast from the living room that she runs headfirst into a firm, solid body, promptly spilling the entirety of her drink all over the poor soul that had the distinct misfortune of being in her path. For a second, Elliot opens her mouth to apologize—sorry, so sorry, fuck, I’m so sorry, how much was that shirt, I can buy you a new one—but then her eyes land on that face and she promptly snaps her mouth shut.

“Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how much this—”

John is looking down at his shirt, drenched in vodka and something else, when his eyes finally meet hers. And then all irritation is wiped from his face—maybe not from his eyes, entirely—and a wicked grin splits across his expression. It immediately sends her heart fluttering, and she thinks maybe it’s just because she likes eyes exactly his shade of blue.

“Ell,” he greets her, his voice a slick purr, “you could have just texted if you wanted to get in touch.”

“I didn’t know it was you, John,” Elliot snaps, “and I wasn’t trying to spill my drink on your stupid shirt.” And then: “You look like a fuckboy in it, anyway.”

“It’s the Lacoste you picked out, last summer.”

“And you thought I didn’t pick it out to make fun of you?” she prompts, meticulously uninterested. It’s a careful facade which must be upheld at all times, of course—not caring about John Seed. “That’s very cute.”

The brunette fans the shirt away from his body, grinning at her, and the expression reaches straight to his eyes—blinks at her through those dark lashes, and for a second she forgets that she broke up with him two months ago because he’s insufferably full of himself, constantly impatient, and hates her job.

“Can’t believe you accosted me,” he tsks, undoing the top buttons of the polo.

Elliot says, “Don’t be a fucking baby. You wasted my whole drink.”

Pulling the shirt off over his head—because of course he fucking would, of course he doesn’t mind peeling it off right there, the narcissistic motherfucker—John slings the shirt across his shoulder and takes a step toward her. There’s already so little space between them, having been in close enough proximity to spill almost all of her drink on him instead of the floor, which means that he’s suddenly invading all of her personal space with that expensive cologne and the faint scent of vodka and—ah, yes. It had been a vodka soda she was drinking.

“Get you a new one,” John offers in a sleek rumble.

For a second, her brain short-circuits: John Seed, exceptionally handsome and insufferably egotistical, crowding up against her at a house party in an expensive neighborhood of Atlanta, fifteen (now ten) minutes to midnight on New Year’s Eve, is her greatest weakness. Mostly, it’s that he’s shirtless, but the other things help too.

“With someone,” Elliot manages out, clearing her throat. “I mean—I’m here. With someone.”

John arches a brow loftily and opens his mouth, certainly about to reply that he doesn’t see anyone with her right now, when a hand glides onto the small of her back and she sees David smiling at her, bright and handsome and just. So sweet.

“You tryin’ to start your own party or something?” her date asks her amusedly, eyes glittering with warmth. He leans down and presses a kiss to her temple, closer to the top of her cheekbone. He’s been doing that all night. Inching closer and closer to her mouth with his shy little kisses.

“N-No,” Elliot says quickly. “John, this is—my…date.”

Dalton? David? Dominic.

A moment lays, suspended between the party of three, where someone is clearly waiting for Elliot to introduce her date whose name she cannot remember for the life of her—and then she doesn’t. So her date laughs and picks up the slack easily and holds his hand out to John.

“Daniel,” he says, and Elliot quickly makes a mental note of that. “It’s nice to meet you, John.”

“Likewise,” John replies, though he’s not nearly as enthused as before. “Daniel’s a biblical name, isn’t it?”

Elliot groans. “Don’t.” When her date looks at her inquisitively, she sighs. “All of John’s siblings are named after Biblical figures.”

“That’s fun,” Daniel says, even though it isn’t. “How do you two know each other?”

“Dated,” John offers up, and as he goes to say, “Long-term, too,” Elliot interjects, “just for a wink,” and they look at each other.

Daniel clears his throat. He stares at Elliot and John for a moment before he goes, “Your glass is empty. Can I get you another drink?”

“Please,” she eeks out, amidst the burning humiliation that comes with having absolutely no control over the situation, and passes him her glass. Fuck, where is Joey? She can dig her own grave, but she’ll need someone to dump the dirt over her once she climbs in. “Thank you, David.”

He gives her another long, searching look, one that she doesn’t quite understand the intention of, before he walks off with the glass in his hand. After two seconds of him being gone, John is very clearly trying to stifle his laughter.

“What?” Elliot grinds out. “If you’re about to say something narcissistic and cruel, John, he’s very handsome and I—”

“You called him the wrong name,” he says, gleefully.

“No I didn’t,” she replies instantly, but then the mortification washes over her, panic setting in. His name was Daniel. Not David. “No,” she says anyway, again, “I—said…Daan—”

“David,” the brunette clarifies. His eyes are bright. “You said David. His name is—and we can say it together, this time, with feeling—”

Elliot sucks in a sharp little breath. “Fuck you.”

“I’d love it,” John replies as quick as instinct, voice pitching low, “more than anything.”

And there it is—wretched, vicious man, sinking his claws right back into her just like that, like it’s nothing, like she’s completely incapable of holding her own against a man she broke up with.

Her face flushes scarlet. She doesn’t even have the excuse of being drunk. Where the fuck is Joey?

“Elliot,” John starts, but she clears her throat.

“Should wash out your shirt,” she says abruptly, snatching it from his shoulders and gripping it in her now-empty fist, “otherwise it’s going to be sticky and you’re going to bitch about it and send me an invoice.”

And she turns on her heel and marches to the nearest bathroom. Anything to get some space between her and John, anything to get her a little fucking breathing room. This whole thing had been a mistake from the get-go; she shouldn’t have ever agreed to coming to this party. But Joey is making out with a pretty red-head, she sees on her way to the bathroom, and it’s her duty, as a best friend wingman, to not end the festivities early.

Of course, taking the shirt to the bathroom had been a bad idea, because while it provides her a temporary reprieve from John’s closeness, he’s soon sliding into the bathroom behind her and shutting the door.

“Anyway, I’ve been having a great time,” Elliot says, which isn’t true, turning the water on cold and running her fingers under it for a minute even though she doesn’t need to. “He’s very nice. And—”

“I’m glad you’re here,” John interrupts, and he’s crowding up behind her, meeting her eyes in the mirror, and he’s shirtless, and it’s so fucking unfair. “You haven’t been answering my calls.”

“We—” She clears her throat, sticking the shirt under the water. “Broke up.”

“So you’re going to ignore me?”

“Well I work,” she snaps. Her fingers scrub the polo uselessly. “I have a fucking job. And, I��ll remind you, I’m here with someone, so if you want to give me a little more—”

“Ell,” he murmurs, his voice low, his mouth against her ear, “are you trying to make me jealous?”

Yes, everything in her says as his hands cage her in against the sink, just the way that he knows she likes. “I’m not that petty.”

“It’s working.” He makes a low, despondent sound, the timbre of it rumbling against her skin, and it’s so fucking ludicrous, how can someone be so attractive when they’re complaining?

Elliot slaps her hand down on the faucet to stop the water and turns around, steeling herself against him. “I’m not—”

“I can’t stop picturing you with him, and I hate it,” John says, their foreheads touching and their noses brushing—and it’s so unfair, so fucking unfair, he is so attractive and she misses the way that he kisses her. She’s fucking weak and she hates it. “Is that what you want, hellcat? A nice boy named Daniel to mix you a drink and kiss you at midnight?”

“Fuck,” Elliot says, about to say You, but he’s kissing her. His hands immediately go to her hips through the flimsy black silk of her dress and he hoists her onto the sink’s counter so that he can sidle between her legs, closer closer closer, always discontent with how much of her skin is within reach.

He kisses her like he’s hungry—a man, starving, for her, Elliot Nobody Honeysett, backwater hicktown Deputy with nary a designer anything to her name, but he’s hungry for her all the same. He kisses her, and from there on out it’s No Man’s Land: there’s no Joey, no crowd of people, no Nice Boy Dalton (Daniel) to make sure she’s behaving herself, and so she knots her fingers in his hair and kisses him back.

Stupid, she thinks, even when her lips part for him almost immediately, especially when she moans into his kiss because his teeth drag on her lip. Stupid, stupid fucking girl, you can’t, you can’t.

But she is. John’s breath fans hot and silky against her neck and she feels her lashes flutter, his hands sliding up under the hem of her dress, and it’s so fucking loud—loud, and hot, and the sink started running again because she bumped it, that neither she nor John pay any attention to the countdown starting outside.

“I don’t think you do,” John rumbles, voice thick and laden with desire. “Want a good boy. Do you, Ell?”

“Shut the fuck up,” she grinds out, “and kiss me, fuckface.”

He grins against her mouth and yanks her hips against his. It’s tight; the bathroom’s small, meant to be a quick stop, and certainly in a house like this there’s a bigger master bathroom that would be much more comfortable, if they could just—

Stop, she thinks furiously, stop mapping out a route to get fucked in.

A whimper pitches out of her when John slides his arm under her and hauls her closer still. Her fingers dig into his bare shoulders, and he says, “Love when you make that sound, Ell, so fucking good—no good boy for you, isn’t that right?”

“No,” she gasps obediently against his mouth. Later, she will think back on the absurdity of the moment: she has a perfectly nice boy waiting to kiss her come midnight waiting outside, and she and John are making out like fucking teenagers in a tiny, cramped bathroom.

Yes, later, she will think back on the absurdity of the moment, and feel a great deal of shame. For now, she thinks only of John, and the way he grips her hips with his hands until she moans and the way he says, “You belong to me,” and how if anyone else said that shit, they’d get clocked in the fucking face, but with John it’s—

Different.

It’s always different.

The whole thing is all very distracting. John, bunching her skirt up around her hips so that he can get her closecloseclose, ever craving her touch, and her ever craving to be touched; John, breathing her name against her mouth; John, John, John, doing anything, doing literally anything is so distracting and all-consuming that it’s like there’s no oxygen left in the room anymore for her to breathe.

“Fucking missed you,” he sighs, kissing her palm, the inside of her wrist. “You know I can’t get enough of you. So tell me you missed me, too—”

Went to wash out his shirt, she’ll tell David, and we got distracted.

That’s a good way to put it. We’re distracted, Elliot thinks, gliding her hands along his shoulders and kissing him again. That’s all. Just distracted.

They’re so distracted, they even miss the clock striking midnight.

But at least she got her kiss.

#archive q #facelift q #spilled ink #x: death keep off; i am your enemy #no cult au #c: elliot honeysett #c: john seed #john seed/oc #john seed/female deputy #never forget elliot getting her date's name wrong in the most offensive way possible #far cry 5 fic #fc5 fic

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deltamb3r · 7 months

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With nothing better to do today because all my errands have been delayed, I've decided to clean up some doodle I had as wips for wayyyy too much

These depicts the first time Narinder ever saw Lamb actually having real emotion instead of their Cult Leader default expression

Lamb fell first, but Nari fell harder lmao

Bonus:

I had this in mind since sharing this suggestion somewhere

(...How was he supposed to tell his kids they got married because he was high)

#cult of the lamb #cotl au #cotl #scarlet oblivion au #lamb cotl #narinder #baal #aym #aym and baal #narilamb #true devotion #cotl follower #doodle

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nerdycolorcupcake · 1 year

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I am so in love with the scarlet oblivion design made by @deltamb3r i just had to doddle it

Hope you like it and your AU looks incredible uwu

#bunbunart #cotl au #scarlet oblivion #narilamb #they look so badass wjhejwe #not my au #digital sketch #my art stuff #my artwork #cult of the lamb au

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cornholio4 · 3 years

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Scarlet Lady Au: Two Halves of Marinette’s Heart

Author’s Note: Based on Zoe-Oneesama's Tumblr comic Scarlet Lady which is my fave Ladybug fan content or tied along with LadyBugOut. Only there and the amnesiac Adrien in the episode Oblivion do I ship Adrienette. Also happy birthday to Zoe.

@zoe-oneesama

Marinette Dupain-Cheng was smiling as he was riding on the back of one of her boyfriends Luka Couffaine's bike as he had insisted on giving her a ride to school. He and Adrien Agreste had recently revealed their feelings to her and she was torn between them: the cute and nice Adrien and the cool but also dorky like her Luka. It was tough to think it through even after they had both assured her that they don't want to hurt their friendship with her no matter what she choose. It was Alya who stepped in after healing her dilemma had said that she can just date them both since she had two hands for the each of them. Luka and Adrien were fine with this as long as Marinette was happy and it was then their relationship happened over the weekend.

They had let their family know and they accepted it well: Anarka was quite over the top in her excitement, Marinette's parents and embarrassed her by saying that she had got them 2 sons in law; Juleka had likewise already claimed Marinette as her sister in law and Adrien's father... Marinette and Luka looked at him in sympathy when he just shook his head saying that he was too busy to get a chance to tell him. Marinette comforted him with a hug not really liking how her favourite designer was so cold to his own son. Pollen was more than happy about his Miraculous' owner's new relationship and said his queen deserved all the love that she gets.

Marinette kissed Luka on the cheek after she got off and Adrien was there to greet them as they posed together for a picture smiling which Juleka took with Adrien's photo. Luka and Adrien showed off their custom necklaces around their necks made by Marinette of two halves of a heart with "Marinette's heart" inscribed on them.

"Are you sure that you are ready for everyone to know about you three?" Juleka asked giving Adrien back his phone and they nodded without hesitation.

"I don't really care as much for father's opinion but he seems to like Marinette as an up and coming designer so I think he will give approval." Adrien said with a huffed voice which had them silent.

"I wouldn't want to hide being with Marinette at all; I would sing it with my soul." Luka said Adrien posted the picture on social media with the caption:

Me with Luka Couffaine and our amazing new girlfriend Marinette Dupain-Cheng!

They got in and as students saw the notice they began crowding Marinette and Adrien as they came in holding hands as they went to their classroom. There were students wanting to get a look at 2 3rds of the new couple as they heard the comments:

"Marinette scored herself with 2 cute guys!"

"Are you going to be modelling Marinette's designs now Adrien?"

"So are you going to be Marinette Dupain-Cheng-Agreste-Couffaine in the future?"

They ignored them and walked into class with Juleka not far behind them to see their excited classmates wanting to know the details.

"So Adrien, will you and Luka be fighting eachother to get the most out of Marinette's time?" Alix asked as Marinette glared at her while Rose was squealing about how romantic it was. Marinette was taken aback when she noticed Lila and Sabrina glaring at their direction while looking quite jealous.

She was shocked by this thinking that she was getting along with Lila and Sabrina was forming a good friendship with her while helping her start over from her toxic so called 'friendship' that she had with Chloe. Marinette's eyes widened when she noticed that Adrien went to get to his seat and their looks were going to his direction, so it was Adrien they were angry at?

"Can I please ask if Adrien has done something to anger you?" Marinette asked as they both shook their heads and there were laughter.

"Marinette, they are just jealous that Adrien and Luka got to you first!" Alya told her grinning as they ended up nodding slightly a bit embarrassed.

"You helped me be more truthful about myself and I still remember how in love that I felt when I heard you badmouth that terrible Scarlet Lady!" Lila said as Marinette was open mouthed wondering just could she possibly remember that since she was Volpina at the time. Marinette did remember that while she was telling the love struck Volpina that she hated Hawk Moth more than Scarlet Lady, that she a bit scared that Volpina was going to kidnap her as a bride for her comment alone.

"You've always been so nice to me Marinette and never held what I did for Chloe against me, even when I tried to steal your diary for her and lied my way into your room. You've been more of a friend to me than Chloe ever was and you are so amazing." Sabrina told her as Marinette didn't know what to say.

"I bet Luka and Adrien wouldn't mind if you wanted to date Marinette as well, if Marc is alright with Nathaniel wanting to go after Marinette as well." Rose suggested as Marinette, Sabrina, Lila and Nathaniel were now red in the face.

"Dupain-Cheng!" screamed an unwelcome voice as the entire class groaned in unison as they should have dreaded this reaction as Chloe came in looking angrier than they had ever saw her which was quite an accomplishment for her. "How dare you steal my Adrikins away from me! I could care less if you wanted to waste your time with that loser with the guitar as losers belong together, that do you think that I was going to sit back and let you keep them both for yourself when Adrien is mine!" Chloe thundered as the class glared at her.

"Watch what you say about Marinette or my brother!" Juleka said speaking up using courage that almost never comes to her.

"Adrien is not a prize to be won or yours to claim Chloe; it's his choice who he wants to be with!" Marinette told her as Chloe smirked getting out her phone.

"Managed to get a picture of your little notebook when you had it open and wasn't looking Dupain-Cheng." Chloe said showing off a drawing of a love heart around Chat Noir as Marinette was open mouthed at that picture being shown to the class and red in her face but while angry at Chloe, Adrien couldn't help but smile a bit at the picture. "So do you want to claim the mangy cat as well Dupain-Cheng with how pathetic you are?" Chloe snarked looking victorious but Adrien spoke up.

"Nothing wrong with having a celebrity crush Chloe, I have one on Marigold myself." Adrien said taking out his notebook and showing that it had a photo of the Bee heroine Marigold with a heart drawing around it as Marinette was redder in the face while Chloe was open mouthed.

"Nothing wrong with that dude, she is pretty much the best hero that Paris has now!" Nino said with everyone smiling and nodding in agreement besides Chloe and Marinette. Marigold has with her fighting tenacity, warm comforting words to Akuma victims after they were being freed and happy to help civilians in need made her a more popular hero. She had given interviews and how valued Chat Noir was as a partner and helped Paris realise how hard he had to fight against the Akumas.

"Excuse me but Scarlet Lady is by far Paris' best hero!" Chloe retorted by Alya got out her phone and showed the poll that the news station had made asking Paris citizens who they liked the best.

Marigold was in the lead followed by Chat Noir, Maotif the one time temporary Chat Noir was in 3rd place and in a very distant 4th place with barely 1% vote was Scarlet Lady. "Paris disagrees Chloe." Alya told her and Chloe was furious. People were being interviewed and the stories of people's interactions with Scarlet Lady were now circulating.

"Adrien, you can't seriously be okay with this! I'm your friend and we would be much better than stupid Dupain-Cheng!" Chloe told Adrien but he shook his head.

"'Were' your friend Chloe, 'were' as in we used to be and haven't really been friends for a long time but I am just making it official!" Adrien thundered and Chloe was open mouthed and this surprised the class. "Sorry Chloe, I have tried to give you some time to better yourself but you keep pulling these stunts while being a cruel bully to our classmates and treating me like a possession of yours. Calling my girlfriend and my new bro losers was me losing all patience and I can't pretend anymore. I am sorry Chloe but I can't be friends with you anymore, you are different from the friend that I used to have." Adrien said and Chloe furiously charged at Marinette.

Adrien caught her hand and glared at her hard before letting go, Chloe began ranting and shouting on the spot while kicking the desk and Ms Bustier had to tell her off and send her to the principal's office.

"Sorry about that Adrien..." Marinette said since as much bad blood as there was between her and Chloe, the bully did used to be a friend to Adrien.

"You have nothing to be sorry about, just keep being the girl that I love." Adrien told her and she smiled back.

Later in the week, after school they were at a park bench as Marinette was at Luka's lap and Adrien was in Marinette's as the three relaxed together. However they heard screaming and saw an Akuma attacking people in the streets.

Marinette jumped out of Luka's lap and helped Adrien up who was in a similar panic as her's. "Sorry guys, I hate to break up a perfect moment but... I have to get a cake to Nadja and I don't want to be earlier than I was last time since it didn't go so well..." Marinette said thinking on the spot.

"Don't worry... I just remembered an event that my dad would want me to be at..." Adrien said as they both ran off in separate directions.

Luka smiled as she dusted himself off and went home chuckling at them, after a few days of this did they really think that he would not pierce it together? No matter, this means that he could talk to Adrien about Marigold and bond over them crushing on her.

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vivithefolle · 3 years

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What are your favourite fanfic tropes/aus for romione?

(I’m gonna try to make my way through old asks I received AGES ago and never answered because I’m a procrastinating lump. Here’s betting I’m going to give up and play videogames all day instead.)

Oh my god, so many.

Okay so as a rule of thumb as long as it’s nice to Ron I’ll read it. I’ll read anything. I have been known to read Ron/Draco and even sacrificed my dignity and everything I stand for as a human being by reading some Ron/Snape stuff. Yes. I was THAT desperate. This is how low I’m willing to go because of sheer love for Ron.

Which means that when a fic will go “oh poor Hermione, poor Hermione who is waiting for Ron to grow up because She can see one day he could be worth it but for now he’s all dumb-dumb and inferior and doesn’t deserve Her perfection :(”, I will be judging. Judging very hard. I may not leave a comment but rest assured, my thoughts are loud enough for me. This is 2010s mentality. This is “haha I’m so like Hermione, not like other girls who throw themselves at boys, I’m so special and girl powery :)” Horribly Bad Feminism. Fuck that. We’re doing better now.

Speaking of doing better. Recently I read something about how Ron is, paraphrased, “the brute of the Trio”, spun in a positive way since he uses his strength to protect them but, but, still... please no? Just no! Just eff no with these takes about how Ron is a hypermasculine dudebro M For Manly™! No, no, fucking no! Just because he’s the Sulfur to Hermione’s Mercury and Sulfur represents the masculine component to Mercury’s feminine one, DOESN’T MEAN Ron is “the brute”! (”the” brute... seriously... who’s the more brutish one, the one who punches a racist in the face or the one who uses a torture curse as retribution for spitting on his fave teacher?)

The way I see him, Ron is a balance, a blend of feminine and masculine qualities intertwined close together. I LOVE that he can swear like a sailor but can only say “scarlet woman” or “cow” when it comes to insulting a woman. Some will probably see it as “hurr durr he sexist he doesnt think women can take it!!!!!!! >8C” but given that those are probably also the peeps who say “HE CALLE D HERMOANI A NIGHTMURRR!!!!!!! DDDDD8″ I’m gonna venture the idea that we don’t care about those folks’ biased, sexist opinions.

Where was I going with this... oh yes! Ok, so Ron can swear like a sailor yet couldn’t insult a girl to save his life. He’s strong physically but most of all he’s strong mentally (to put up with the way his friends treat him for years speaks a lot of his mental fortitude... and to top it off he comes back for more to boot! I’m not sure if that’s more mental fortitude or straight-up masochism though.) When he succeeds at things he gets a bit attention-whoreish but at the same time, you can see that when he’s being complimented he’s all unsure of himself and blushy and shy and you just, dude you can’t handle positive attention because you don’t know how to react to it I don’t know whether that’s adorable or the saddest thing I’ve seen in my life? He’s insecure but he’s always the first to cheer on Harry and Hermione when they’re doing something great, which speaks VOLUMES of Ron’s selflessness and of his actual character: to quote @peetamaellark, Ron doesn’t think “Harry is great, therefore he sucks and I hate him”, he thinks “Harry is great, therefore I suck and I hate me”. THIS is Ron. THIS is why Ron will lash out, not because he hates Harry, but because internally he hates himself and you can’t keep that sort of feeling bottled up for too long before... you got it, you explode.

I. Want. More. Fics where Hermione isn’t this ~oh dear~ Victorian damsel in distress who cries and Ron is the Big Strong Man who holds her with one arm and is stony-faced and goes “I’ll protect you”, please no that was old before it existed, let us have nice, realistic depictions of Ron and Hermione please.

Like, Hermione is more than capable of kicking butt herself. She IS absolutely nervous and scared and cries easily and that’s a vulnerability we NEED, but the fact that she can be super scared and crying but still hex her opponent into oblivion? THAT’s good, THAT’s excellent. It’s a very important message for girls, I think. “You can cry, you can be sensitive, you can be emotional, AND you can still kick butt”. And as important as that message is for girls, it’s also a very important message to give boys, because boys are socialized to “never cry” and that’s super unhealthy. I love Ron’s admiration of Hermione. I love the way Ron hesitates, the way he can be cautious when he needs to as much as he can be reckless and impulsive. I love how he shows himself to be a big softie and a sweet soul. I don’t think that makes him an “emasculated doormat” (to quote a guest I once saw on FFN), on the contrary it makes him an even better man in my eyes. You know why I love the locket scene so much? Because Ron’s tears aren’t ridiculed. Ron gets to cry about the terrible ordeal he’s been put through, and while Harry “pretends he can’t see Ron cry” because it’s more comfortable for him personally, he doesn’t try to tell Ron to “man up” or anything. His reassurance is pretty lousy but he lets Ron cry, he lets his friend be upset, and he doesn’t try to invalidate Ron’s pain. (ok, the “I thought you knew” is kiiiiinda on the way there, but it stops at that and I’m grateful for it).

I like. Seeing Ron distressed. I like seeing Ron upset and be allowed to be upset. I like to see Ron’s pain treated with respect. So when Ron is having a shit day I like to see him get a cuddle. I like seeing Ron go through horrible ordeals and break down and for his breakdown to be properly acknowledged and not turned into insensitive comic relief (ISN’T THAT RIGHT, LATTER HALF OF THE SILVER DOE????). I mean seriously, just imagine GOF, Harry sitting in the hospital wing after Cedric’s death, Molly Weasley gives him a hug and it’s all very sad and angsty. And now picture Ginny running into the room screaming “HARRY JAMES POTTER” and punching him over and over and saying “PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER MAN, PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER” then after two pages of Harry “explaining” himself to Ginny she goes away saying “aight but if you do that shit again you’ll have to answer to me” then Harry’s friends are like “damn she’s spunky huh?” and Harry laughs and everyone laughs and this is how the book ends? How would it be funny? How would it be appropriate? How would it feel like “romance”? When Ron returns in The Silver Doe, he’s been psychologically tortured (”tortured” is the actual word JKR uses, please), we don’t need him to be hurting outside as well.

I want more accountability for Hermione. More “uh hey Hermione maybe don’t do that”. More “hey Hermione you know you think of yourself as a good person buuuut yeah actually if all good persons were like you I’d be very afraid”. More “Hermione please for the love of God educate yourself”. More “Hermione sweetie I love you, but you can’t actually learn everything from books”. CHARACTER. DEVELOPMENT. PLEASE. Don’t be afraid to punch Hermione down and tear her apart the way the best Ron fics maim and torture our poor boy. Just because Rowling treated Hermione with kiddy princess gloves doesn’t mean you have to mimic her.

So when Hermione does a genuinely shitty thing let her own up to it. When Ron is a victim let him be upset and angry, even if Hermione is the one treating him badly. Just because he loves her doesn’t mean he’s not allowed to be disappointed in her or that she’s entitled to his immediate forgiveness. Give Ron and Hermione equal consideration. If you’re brushing off Hermione’s actions but condemning Ron for the slightest mistake, I am sure to hate it.

Okay, uh, so, those aren’t really tropes. Those are more just, guidelines I presume.

Oh, yeah, a trope that annoys me! Ron saying “you’re mine”, “my Hermione” and stuff, and Hermione just swoons and says “yours” and shiz. Ok, once in a while, why not. Once in a while. BUTT. I WANT HERMIONE TO SAY IT TOO. “Mine”, “my Ron!” and Ron swoons and says “yours, absolutely yours”. DO IT YOU COWARDS. FUCKING TAKE THOSE GENDER ROLES AND PUNCH’EM IN THE FACE.

Oh, right, while we’re on the subject of gender roles! Dad!Ron is everything. SingleParent!Ron is mwaaah. Stay-at-home-Dad!Ron is ALKZLDSJDLQSKLFJ <3. AnimalLover!Ron is HHHHNNNGG. Remember, the small gestures, the tiniest, softest acts Ron does (helping Harry get dressed when his arm is deboned, giving Dobby his brand-new sweater, praising Ginny, Luna and Neville when they escaped Umbridge), those are often those unremarkable, unmistakeably kind and sweet actions that tell us who Ron really is at his core: not a guy who’d want power at all costs, not a guy who’d give it all for ambition, not a guy who sees people as possessions, but someone kind who wants to make others happy.

Ok, I was also asked for AUs, so, uh, pretty much every AU is game as long as Ron gets treated with respect? I mean I don’t really care for Mafia!AUs or such but if you can find a way to fit good Romione then go for it I guess. Royalty AU, yeah why not but I often see Ron being made a prince while Hermione is a poor wee servant girl and like. Uuum, we’re talking about the same characters here? Hermione the highly educated girl who keeps on walking over everyone’s toes and loudly talking about how things should be done and is definitely Nouveau Riche, Ron who is a country boy who lives on a farm and is lost in the constant shuffle of his brothers, you think she should be the peasant and he should be the royal? Whaddafack? Oh, and all the “Hermione is a Muggle, Ron is a wizard” AUs that start this way BUTT! Suddenly... Hermione... turns out... to be (wait for it!)... A WITCH! And a super powerful super talented very good one too!!!... yeah ok, yawn. It’s quite scary, actually, how often I’ve seen that plotline, but in the rare cases when it’s Muggle!Ron and Witch!Hermione, Ron never ever EVER (I mean, seriously, NEVER EVER) turns out to have been a wizard, not even a mediocre one, all along. No, when Ron is made a Muggle for the sake of AU he stays a Muggle. But when Hermione is made a Muggle she has to turn out TO HAVE BEEN A WITCH ALL ALONG OMYGAH. I can count on one hand the number of Mugglemione/Wizardron fics that actually stick to their Mugglemione premise till the end - and usually they’re one-shots. (Also I don’t mean “Ron mistakes Hermione for a Muggle because he meets her in the Muggle world and assumes he must hide his magic from her, oh wait she was actually a witch!” fics, I mean genuinely “Hermione has been raised a Muggle her whole life, never had weird things happen to her her whole life ever, then Ron comes in and is a wizard and he does magic and Hermione wonders what it’d be like to be a witch and oh surprise! Don’t worry Hermione, you won’t have to feel not-special or mundane for long, here comes the plot contrivance to tell you you really were in fact the specialest of them all!!” fics.) Fairytale!AU is cool. Very good. But honestly I like to see them swapped around. Ron cursed by a nasty fae to be a Beast and Hermione stumbling upon him? Neat, especially if you don’t go the boring route of “oh let’s just rehash the Disney/the original book with different names and call it a day”. But Hermione cursed by an asshole fae for, let’s say, not sharing books, turning into a Beast, and Ron stumbling upon her as she’s trying to survive in the woods (and not doing a very good job of it)? Yes, brava, chief’s kiss. Rapunzel AU where Hermione’s bushy hair turns into the most impractical, most suffocating improvised ladder ever for Ron? Hilarious. Rapunzel AU where Ron has A GIANT EFFING PONYTAIL OF THE GODS and is screaming “ow ow ow” as Hermione makes her way up to his window cringing and saying “sorry! sorry! sorry! (damn his hair smells good)” on every step? Equally hilarious. Go! Be creative! Please I beg of you

Creature!fics! Oh my god there’s not enough of those, at least that aren’t focused on a bullshit pairing! Soulmate AUs! Give me everything! I’ll even take A/B/O if you insist on making it Romione! That’s how far I’ve fallen from human decency I’ll take anything just give me some good Ron content please I beg of you (Ah and to those that are going to say “Alpha Ron Omega Hermione :)))” well yes, but actually no. “Beta Ron Beta Hermione”? “Beta Ron Alpha Hermione”? “Omega Ron Alpha Hermione”??? HELL YEAH NOW WE’RE TALKIN)

Oh dear god I’m still not finished and I haven’t gone through everything someone stop me.

AND NOW BE CAREFUL CHILDREN, BELOW WILL BE SMUT.

Okay I don’t know if it qualifies as a trope, but. But. A more realistic depiction of Ron is usually what I’m after. All those fanfics that have Ron be “the sexy experienced one ;)))” ravishing “naive virginal Hermione ;))” is just UGH. We spent all the 2000-2010 period having fics like this, mind adding a bit of EQUALITY to the mix???

It’s just... I hate it okay? So many fics read like they’re just projection, writers who are essentially making Ron their big strong sex toy stud who's so attentive and sweet and cherishing, and so it does indirectly ends up as "servant Ron is so devoted to his goddess Hermione, providing pleasure to her while she doesn’t have to lift a finger”. The Dom!SexGod!Ron thing honestly depresses me... Since it's Ron taking care of Hermione, AGAIN. Like, he spends his WHOLE LIFE doing that already. Can we give him a break for once?

In the endI feel that it's less "Romione smut" and more "self-inserting into Hermione smut". In "real" Romione smut I think Ron and Hermione would switch roles according to what they feel like. And honestly I ALWAYS picture Ron being super nervous during Dom stuff, like he spanks her once then immediately he goes "oh my god are you okay?? did that hurt, do you want to stop?", things like that. I cannot imagine it happening any other way. XD Ron is just... too caring, too sensitive to do stuff like hard BDSM and that kind of thing in my opinion. He’s too much of a caretaker. I understand if it’s your kink and you’re perfectly free to project and write the fic you want, I’m not the fun police, but it’s just... I don’t think that’s really what Ron would be like. I just want MORE realistic Ron.

Also I’m trying really really hard to not point fingers here but WHY is it that it’s always “Ron growled” while it’s always “Hermione whimpered” or “Hermione moaned”? Like... you know it’s okay for a man to moan or whimper in pleasure too, right? You know Ron isn’t 110% muscles and testosterone? You know Hermione is allowed to be fierce too? Hermione can 100% “growl” and be dominant and pin Ron to the wall and reduce him to a puddle of goo if you’re brave enough?

(Honestly how sexy would Ron think that is? The woman he loves is half his size yet can pin him down and ravish him. DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG RON HAS WANTED TO BE RAVISHED AND CHERISHED DO YOU KNOW HE’S BEEN WANTING THIS ALL HIS LIFE)

Oooo-kay, so that’s... mostly it, I reckon. Oh also Ron has a gigantic penisraise kink (and a great penis too, but mostly a praise kink). That’s canon and that’s all.

#vivi answers #ask #ron weasley #hermione granger #romione #harry potter #harry potter series #hp fanfic #fanfiction #tropes #au #writing

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